


To Victor Goes the Spoils

by tisfan



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Apologies, Ballroom Dancing, Break Up, Closet Sex, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Fingering, Frottage, Hate Sex, Identity Porn, M/M, Make up sex, Oral Sex, Relationship Talk, Secret Identity, Semi-Public Sex, Using your words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2018-09-20 06:16:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9479099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: In which Doom finds himself at a super hero masked ball... and gaining the attentions of the handsome and charming Tony Stark...Just one dance... just one kiss... before Doom unleashes his evil plot.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shi_Toyu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shi_Toyu/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Победителю отходят трофеи](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15385200) by [Radioactive_Scorpion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radioactive_Scorpion/pseuds/Radioactive_Scorpion)



> See also Shi_ Toya's [Doom's Day Plan](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9481160)

There was an awful lot of cheese at this particular party, and Doom believed he was looking at the reason why. Even under the delicate gold-chased red silk demi-mask, Tony Stark’s signature beard wasn’t hard to recognize. Not that the colors were unrecognizable, either. Trust Tony Stark to be unable to even attend a masquerade ball without drawing attention to himself. 

Doom smiled, his own green and silver mask pulled tight over his eyes. No one knew him; no human in the last fifteen years had seen his face. He fingered the detonator in his pocket. 

Reed Richards had been foolish enough to leave the invitation out where Doom could see it, on their last meeting, and while he’d been forced to retreat -- again! And how infuriating that was! -- he’d gotten a particularly good idea from the failed raid. 

Now, here Doom was, mingling with the heroes and mutants that made his life so miserable, unknown. Unseen. Unstopped. Unnoticed. 

Well, maybe. Doom noticed that Stark kept shifting his eyes from the cheese plate (from which he was nibbling, long fingers selecting cubes and popping them into his mouth with abandon) to look in Doom’s direction. 

Doom did another visual sweep around the room; some party-goers he recognized easily, beneath their masks. It wasn’t like there were many brick-faced monsters who attended parties in the city -- Thing. Ug. Who even invited mobile masonry to a party? It was positively uncivilized. And the great Thor, himself, hard to miss that booming voice. 

From the corner of Doom’s eye, a red and gold motion drew his attention. Stark was coming in Doom’s direction. Curses! He’d hoped to make it at least until the desserts were presented before having to enact his plan. He flicked the cap on his detonator. 

“Drink?” Stark said, extending a champagne flute. “Forgive me for being forward, but you looked… _thirsty_.” 

Doom blinked behind his mask. What was that? A cheesy pick-up line? He snorted, but let his thumb slide off the detonator. Perhaps he could get to try that chocolate cheesecake after all; he’d heard rumors about Van Dyne’s preferred caterer. 

Doom stared at the champagne glass, not entirely certain what to do. He settled for taking it from Stark’s hand, the crystal light and breakable under his hand. Doom did not typically drink from such fragile vessels. Nor, for that matter, did Doom usually taste champagne. Although, he did have a few bottles tucked away in his wine cellar for special occasions. Not that anything special had happened that occasioned it. He turned the glass slowly, watching the light reflect off the bubbles. The effect was oddly pretty. 

Doom shrugged, then tipped the glass back, tasting it. 

Champagne was sweet. And sort of fizzy. It tickled Doom’s nose and danced along his tongue and before he quite knew what had happened, he’d emptied the glass. Doom knew the social graces -- he was, after all, the ruler of a small, tightly disciplined nation -- but he’d never actually used them before. “Thank you.” 

Underneath his mask, Stark grinned. It was a huge thing, all glittery teeth and wide, plush lip. Not, Doom realized, the press-smile, which never touched his eyes. Doom could see Stark’s eyes, rich and brown and squinched up at the corner, what little bit was revealed by his mask. “There you are,” he said, and Doom had an instant of panic where he thought he’d been discovered. “I was wondering what you’d sound like. Knew it had to be good. Care to dance?” 

What? 

“D--” 

“Dance, you know,” Stark said, his hips moving in time with the music behind them. Doom noted that the suit he wore was… very well tailored. The slacks -- not slack at all -- fit narrow hips and displayed muscular thighs to advantage, and the jacket clung to the man’s shoulders like a lover. “With me, specifically.” 

Doom was about to protest, but perhaps there was something in that slender glass of champagne that made him… more daring? Nonsense, Doom had not a single cowardly bone in his body. He extended his hand and let Stark take it. 

“Gloves,” Stark commented, folding his fingers around Doom’s. “Classy. I like it.” Stark’s own hands were bare, the fingers long, the wrists graceful. They were strong hands, and Doom was oddly attracted by that fact. 

Stark spun onto the dance floor and Doom felt a momentary surge of gratitude toward his mother, of all things, in that he actually knew how to dance. His mother had insisted on a certain skillset, which included diplomacy, dancing, table manners, bomb making, eco-terrorism, and poetry. 

Despite asking Doom to dance, Stark seemed content to let Doom lead, which was probably the better plan, Doom being so much taller. Stark was light, graceful. They started with a simple two-step, moving with ease around the floor, but as Doom found Stark a talented partner, they moved into more and more complex steps until they moved into a quick-paced rumba and finally into a more athletically challenging swing moves, including a belt-flip that Doom would not have thought Stark capable of until he set both hands on either side of Doom’s hips with a challenging grin. 

The tempo of the next song dropped, slow, and the less talented flocked to the floor to engage in that ridiculous pastime, the slow dance. Arms around each other, wobbling in small, unstylish circles. Pathetic. Doom opened his hands to release Stark back into the wilds of the party. 

“Oh, not yet,” Stark said, not letting go of Doom’s fingers. “Surely, with moves like that, you can waltz?” 

Doom was uncertain as to the wisdom of this particular action; the waltz was a dance for conversation, a chance to -- 

But Stark’s hand was warm, even through the thin leather of Doom’s glove, and his smile was inviting, and the shirt clung tighter to his chest, spotted here and there with sweat from their exertions. Doom allowed himself to be drawn back in. Stark’s hand slid low, around Doom’s back, in accordance with the rules of the dance. 

Something swirled in between them, the few inches allotted by custom. Heat and interest. 

“If I asked your name,” Stark said, “would you tell me the truth?” 

“This is not a night for truth,” Doom said, ironically, honest. “This is a night for secrets, and I would prefer not to lie.” 

“Unusually forthright, for someone who’s keeping secrets,” Stark said, his mouth tipping up in a wicked smile. “I like it.” 

“Building a mystery,” Doom replied. Doom found that he liked it, too, although what Doom liked, exactly, he couldn’t say. 

“So,” and here, Stark turned him, easily, their bodies moving together as if they’d rehearsed it, “what can you tell me, Mystery Man, about yourself that will not give away your secrets?” 

“That is a trap,” Doom pointed out, “and well you know it. Perhaps you are no creature of Arthur Conan Doyle, but your wit and ingenuity are matched by only a few others on the planet.” One of which was Doom’s, of course, but he could not say that without giving away the game. And for whatever reason, Doom was enjoying the moment too much to spoil it, just yet. There was plenty of time yet for chaos. 

“You know who I am,” Stark said, not looking particularly surprised by this revelation. 

“ _Everyone_ knows who you are, Anthony Stark,” Doom said. The music had a simple three-beat, steady, but out of sync with Doom’s racing heart. Strange how the athletic dance they’d shared before did nothing so strange to the rhythm of Doom’s pulse, but this dance, this closeness, was doing something unexpected. Doom found himself staring at Stark’s mouth, the way those full lips moved, the darting pink tongue that slid out to wet them. Maybe it was because so much of Stark’s face was covered by the mask, that he had nothing else to look at aside from the man’s incredibly mobile ( _sexy_ ) mouth. 

Doom pondered where that thought had come from as they continued to move across the floor, lost to anything else but the moment. The swirling music, the spinning couples, the heat and throb of the drum, the soft, crooning lyrics. 

All good things, and dances, and parties, must come to an end, and the music rose to a crescendo and then died. Stark took Doom’s arm and led him from the floor. At the very edge, near the chairs that had been set up for those who wanted to watch and didn’t want to dance -- Doom took note that Reed Richards was sitting in one, talking animatedly to someone that Doom did not know, while Sue Storm sat nearby, glowering ineffectual at Richards’ back -- were clustered. The wallflower chairs. 

“Thank you for the dance,” Stark said. He bounced up on tiptoe, just as Doom was opening his mouth to say something -- anything, really -- and caught what was probably meant to be a peck on his cheek full on the mouth. 

Stark was never one to fail to take advantage, so of course he pressed his. Doom was frozen for just an instant -- shock -- and then melted into it, his mouth opening to accommodate Stark’s tongue, his lips shaping around the soft sweetness of Stark’s kiss. Doom didn’t direct his arms to go around Stark’s narrow waist, to draw him closer until they were squashed together, but it happened until there was nothing between them. Stark was shaking, like suppressed laughter, or longing, by the time he fell back a step. 

“What was that?” Doom demanded, his fingers going up. He’d meant to touch his own mouth, but somehow, as if drawn by a magnet, he found himself running a gloved fingertip against Stark’s plush lower lip, swollen and pink from kissing. 

“Um, a kiss?” Stark asked. “Haven’t you had one before?” 

Of course Doom had -- or had he? He’d taken lovers before; there were few in his homeland who would refuse him, and some few that had pursued him for reasons of their own -- money, power, status, comfort -- but had he ever kissed any of them? Many years had passed since he first pressed the steel mask to his face and hid himself away from the world that would judge him for the terrible scarring. 

Doom’s jaw tensed up, waiting for Stark’s mockery. It was a fact well worth a jeer. Doom was a far cry from a virgin, but his first kiss had come from one of his greatest enemies, Tony Stark. Iron Man. He was never going to live this down. 

But Stark didn’t say anything cutting or cold; his mouth didn’t twist up in a sneer. He looked… flattered. A trifle smug perhaps, but not at Doom’s expense. 

Doom realized he was still tracing the line of Stark’s mouth with his finger. It wasn’t enough. Doom tugged the glove off with his teeth and cupped Stark’s cheek. “Not the kiss,” Doom said, “a press of lip on lip. _Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged._ This. What is _this_?” 

“Shakespeare?” Stark laughed at that, warm brown eyes dancing. “Then, I should say, _have my lips the sin that they have took_.” 

Doom skipped the next line, drawing Stark in for another kiss, to taste those full lips, to lose himself in the heat and desire of the moment. Stark’s mouth tasted of wine and iron, a hint of coffee. His mouth yielded under Doom’s invasion, inviting him further in and closing the ranks behind him. 

“Get a room!” 

Doom whirled to find Richards’ rolling his eyes expressively. When Doom raised a hand -- he meant to -- Stark’s hand clasped over his wrist, touched the bare skin between glove and jacket, searing him. “No, he’s right, much as it pains me to admit it,” Stark said. With a gentle tug, Stark drew Doom back, away from the chairs. “Never put on a show if you’re not going to be charging admission.” 

“What are you doing?” Doom followed, too confused to plant his feet and demand answers. 

“Figuring out what this is,” Stark said. “This requires study of the phenomena, repeated experiments under tightly controlled situations, exploration from all angles.” 

Who would have thought that science-jargon could be sexy? Doom would not have, but suddenly he burned for it, whatever Stark was suggesting. 

“A broom closet?” 

Stark grinned, throwing the door open with a flourish. “Start small, work up,” he said. “Little messing around in the closet here, hotel room later if results are successful.” 

Doom stuffed his hands back into his jacket pockets, the detonator bouncing against bare fingers, cold and lethal. There was always time, later, and he was curious. Exploration and experimentation to discover what, exactly, this was, zinging between them in the air like a spark of desire, a thread of need, a sliver of want. 

Doom checked behind him. No one was paying them the slightest bit of attention and Stark’s hand was still tight on his wrist. The closet itself was deep, and dark. They could do anything, and no one would ever know. He gave Stark a nudge and they entered, swinging the door closed behind them. Stark shoved a bucket of cleaning supplies in front of the door. It would not, in the slightest, deter anyone at this particular party from opening the door, but might give them a few seconds of warning. 

For a long moment, they stood there, breathing, but not moving, staring at each other in the minimal light cast by Stark’s arc-reactor -- it said something to the thickness of Stark’s shirt that Doom hadn’t noticed it earlier, the pale blue glow seductive and strange -- and then they were moving, hands on each other, lips meeting, bodies pressed together and tangled. 

Doom cupped both hands around Stark’s skull, thumbs pressing just behind Stark’s ears, holding his mouth still for Doom to capture, plunder, take. Stark gave as good as he got, his tongue slick and clever, stroking the inside of Doom’s mouth. Stark tasted like sin and sex and open air, like wildness and danger. He tasted like everything Doom had ever thought he wanted and couldn’t have. 

Doom drew back. This wasn’t the plan, this wasn’t… he should stop. It wasn’t _possible_. This could go exactly nowhere, and. Just one more, one more touch, one more taste. One more moment of pretending and then he would stop. 

Lifting Stark up onto the edge of the sink, Doom sunk himself into the cradle formed by Stark’s legs, rubbed and rutted there as Stark’s ankles closed around Doom’s waist, holding himself there. Just one more kiss, to tide him over, a kiss to last long enough for him to come to his senses. 

“Yes,” Stark said, breathing into the kiss as if he wanted nothing more, needed nothing more than this. “That’s just perfect.” 

“Tony,” Doom said his name and Tony shuddered under it, dragging his lips down Doom’s cheek, to his chin, along the soft, vulnerable line of Doom’s throat. Doom couldn’t resist, he didn’t want to. He let Tony touch him, he was hard as iron and desperately wanting. He yanked Tony’s mouth back up to meet his, the kiss growing wet and slick and needy as they ground together, hips working in sensual tandem, as much in sync now as they had been on the dance floor. 

Doom growled with pleasure, drinking in Tony’s sighs as if he were a thief. He _was_ a thief, he was stealing from this man, taking something without permission, taking it and giving nothing in return. Under normal circumstances, that would have amused Doom. Now, he just felt a shiver of guilt. He drew back, slow, hesitant. 

“You should give me something to call you,” Tony murmured, chasing after Doom’s kiss again. He reached out and touched Doom’s face, light and hesitant. His hand trailed down, across Doom’s chest and down again, brushing against the front of Doom’s trousers, where Doom’s interest was entirely obvious. 

“Why?”  


“So I’ll have something to scream when you make me come,” Tony said, easily enough, and Doom shuddered, wanting that. Damn, he wanted it, but it would be foolish as well as stupid. Tony would not want -- could not _possibly_ want -- what they were doing, if he knew the truth. 

“Rabun,” Doom said, digging up an old, old alias, one that he had not used in decades, one that Tony would probably not recognize, but a name he’d used often enough that it had meaning for him. Words, after all, were power. Saying those words gave you power over the thing the word described, and for that fleeting moment, Doom wanted Tony to have power over him. But only a little. 

The whisper of Doom’s zipper was somehow very loud and exceedingly important. With a jerk, Tony unfastened the front of Doom’s pants and let go. Doom’s slacks, not so tailored or tight as Tony’s, slid down his thighs and ended up puddled around his ankles. Doom arched into that touch, aching for it, wanting, needing, and Tony’s hand was on him. Stroking, teasing, light and almost playful. Doom watched, his eyes intent on every movement. 

As Tony stroked him, quick but tender, teasing but well-done and swift, they groaned together in mutual pleasure from the contact. Doom reveled in the feel of Tony’s hand on him, and then Tony lifted his hand, licked his own palm and returned it to Doom’s cock, slicker now, a beautiful, aching slide of heat and wet. Tony was glorious, shameless. Doom pressed closer to that touch, hard and thick and desperate for release. And then Tony’s mouth was on him, making the most glorious little noises, sighing and groaning his desire as he worked with his tongue and lips and made promises to Doom’s body that he could never, ever keep. 

Doom was willing to let Tony lie about it. 

It didn’t take long for Doom to find what he needed in the wet silk of Tony’s mouth. Doom was wrecked by it, his fingers bit into Tony’s shoulders as he came, bruising the skin there. In that moment, Tony was the most dangerous man that Doom knew, because Doom _wanted_. 

Doom brushed the corner of Tony’s mouth as the man sat upright again, panting for breath. “Now, for you,” Doom said, reaching down. Tony unzipped himself and wriggled the tight pants down his thighs, squirming and writhing in Doom’s grasp, shuddering at the accidental -- and not so accidental -- brushes against his skin as Doom helped him.    

There were words to describe the sort of man that Victor Von Doom was, and none of them included such adjectives as _kind_ , or _tender_ , but for that moment, he would be everything that he was not. For one shining moment, he would let Tony drag him into the sunlight -- metaphorically speaking, of course -- and he would be everything that Tony needed. 

He hoped. 

Doom twisted into a squat, Tony perched on the edge of the sink just above him, and Doom took a long, slick taste of Tony’s shaft, the skin soft, velvet, a little damp from sweat and wanting and exertion. He pressed his tongue to that skin, swirled it around like rolling a sweet around in his mouth and Tony groaned into it, tossing his head back and half-falling into the sink. 

“No, no,” Doom scolded, drawing him back up. “I can take you to heaven, but only if you watch me along the way.” He wanted those eyes on him, black and needy and full of desire. Full of want. For Doom, for Doom’s touch, for Doom’s mouth. He needed it like he needed air, like water and wine, like meat and might.

  
Tony inhaled, sharp with lust, and propped himself up as best he could. His eyes were intent and he met Doom’s gaze in the faint blue light of the arc-reactor. “Oh, god,” he said, reverent and helpless. “That’s so… god, that’s so hot.” 

For a quickie in the closet, Doom had not expected -- well, truth, he’d expected nothing and was given everything -- that it would be so desperately sweet. A frenzied coupling that bordered on insanity, and yet there was a charm and delightfulness to it that Doom would not have minded exploring at greater leisure. But since this was all there ever would be, Doom was determined to do it well. To brand this one memory on Tony Stark, this one moment that he’d never forget. 

Doom leaned back a moment, to admire the sleek lines of Tony’s body, rumbled and fascinating, half dressed and legs spread wantonly. Doom ran his lips up the hard, straining length of him, groaning in appreciation as Tony arched off the sink, holding himself up with his his arms. It was glorious, the power he had in this moment, and no need to dominate or destroy, but only to bring unspeakable pleasure. 

This man was his, in this moment.   

And Doom belonged to him. 

Tony yelled, as promised, as he came, and Doom had never heard anything so wonderful. “Yes, yes,” Tony chanted, “give it to me.” 

Tony curled around him, when they were done, limp and sated and breathing hard. They stayed that way for a long moment, a perfect, single instant. 

And then they were busy at the tasks of cleaning themselves up and pretending to be presentable. They were destroyed in that effort, of course. Tony’s hair was all in disarray, and not the artful, intentional sort that he normally carried off so well, and Doom’s shirt was stained with god-knew what muck and soap from the sink. 

Doom helped Tony tuck his shirt in and stole a few more burning kisses. 

The clock struck, sounding midnight, just as they stepped away from the closet, both of them delightfully mussed and reeking of sex. 

“Unmask, unmask,” the cry went around the ballroom and everywhere were heroes that Doom knew, showing their faces. 

“Yes,” Tony said, moving closer. “Unmask.” 

No one would know. Doom let Tony unfasten the mask, let the green and silver fall away from his face, showing his scar, his ugliness, to the man he’d just shared something beautiful with. This was the moment where Tony would sneer, would reject everything that -- 

“God, you’re fucking gorgeous,” Tony whispered. He touched Doom’s face, traced the line of Doom’s cheek. Doom almost slapped his hand away as those fingertips sketched the shape of Doom’s scar. “The most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.” 

“Liar,” Doom said, the word lacking appropriate levels of scorn, but he wanted, desperately wanted to believe. 

Tony peeled off his own mask, met Doom’s eyes with a soft smile. “Does this look like the face of a liar, to you?” 

 _Of course it does._ The words almost spilled over; everyone knew who Tony Stark was, knew what he was. But there was no lie on his face, no hesitation in his expression, and no disgust in his eyes. 

“No, it does not,” Doom said, and he claimed Tony’s mouth for one, final kiss. 

“Is it time for truth, yet?” Tony asked as he snuggled into Doom’s embrace. “Going to tell me who you are?” Doom felt Tony’s hands moving around his back, along the line of his ass. “Let me take you home and continue to figure out what _this_ is?” 

“Not today,” Doom said. He reclaimed Tony’s hands, kissed his fingers. “Good night.” And before Tony could do anything, Doom was gone, swirling into the crowd, leaving him behind. 

When he made clean his escape, he shut himself into the car, shuddering and wishing and… 

Tony had left something for him, apparently. In Doom’s back pocket, he found a fold of paper. _You know who I am. Call me._ And a phone number.

 

* * *

 

Back at Stark Tower for the night, aching and restless, Tony studied the leather glove he’d taken from the man’s hand and that he’d forgotten. 

Somewhere, out there, was a man who’d changed Tony’s life, and Tony was going to find him. 

 


	2. A Stark Reminder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Tony's mysterious lover sends him a letter to meet for a secret tryst...
> 
> Or, more of that Doom/Tony ship that nobody asked for.

God, Tony hated these sorts of things; Stark Industries had formed a business partnership with a small Moroccan company, Intelicorp. As part of SI’s global initiative, they’d reached out over the last few years and formed bonds and think tanks with smaller tech companies, funding and raising global awareness. Intelicorp had recently had a major breakthrough with water and air filtering technology. Tony Stark was expected to make an appearance, and so he would, but for now, he was flopped on the beautiful but not very comfortable sofa in the best suite in the best hotel in Rabat. 

Waste of time, as far as Tony was concerned. Pepper was better at these sorts of events than he was. She always knew what to say, she was punctual and pretty, clever and kind, and hardly ever acted like she wanted to be somewhere else, even when she desperately did. But sometimes the investors wanted to see the elusive Tony Stark, so, Tony Stark it was. 

What Tony _wanted_ to be doing was seeking out the man he’d danced with, nearly a month ago now. A month, and he could still feel the man’s hands on him if he closed his eyes, could taste his lips, hear his soft cries, and Tony _wanted_. He was damned frustrated, too, because usually, when Tony set his mind to a thing, he got it. But it was like his mystery lover didn’t exist. 

No one from the party remembered speaking with him. Janet Van Dyne had no idea who he was. And Tony had combed through every picture from every cell phone at the event and there was nothing, save for one blurry image of Tony and Rabun on the dance floor. Jan swore she didn’t invite anyone by that name, but that there had been several plus-ones that she’d not personally met. 

That stung more than it should have, thinking that the man that Tony was utterly consumed by had been someone else’s date, and the reason that Tony wasn’t able to find him again was because he wasn’t _single_. Not that Tony had particular qualms about cheating -- he took other people’s relationships as seriously as they did. But… he liked to know that was what he was doing when he did it. 

Tony picked at the plate of food room service had brought him. The hotel was stifling and his thoughts were running around in circles. And suddenly, really, all Tony wanted was some fresh air and a jelly doughnut. Well, he wasn’t likely to get the second one without taking out the suit and flying, but the honey-covered pastries that the kitchen had provided would have to do. He wrapped several of them up in the waxed paper they’d been served on. Beneath them was an envelope he hadn’t noticed before. 

Natasha would kill him for being so stupid, but Tony sat the pastries down and picked up the paper. He held it up to the light; the paper was thick enough that he couldn’t tell what was inside, aside from two things that slid heavily. Not paper. 

On the outside, his name in gorgeous, green calligraphy. _Anthony Stark._

Fuck it. If someone sent him a letter bomb, that would be more exciting than delivering an off-the-cuff go forth and prosper speech at a company banquet. He tore the side off the envelope and slid out a packet of items onto the table. A piece of paper, a keycard, and -- a handful of green and silver sparkles and a strip of red and gold lace. Tony swallowed and sat down, hard. 

He unfolded the piece of paper. In the same green ink, _I should have called. Rm 5._  

Too impatient to wait for the elevator to take him one floor, Tony skidded to the left and down the stairs. He had just one second’s worth of warning before a dark shape stepped out of the stairwell. “Mr. Stark.” 

His nerves thrilled to the sound. “Oh, god,” he said, turning. It was-- Tony sagged, nearly fell over, the strings cut on pain he hadn’t even realized he was feeling. “It is you.” 

And then Rabun was in his arms, turning him and pressing him hard against the wall. Tony couldn’t open his mouth fast enough, breath frantic in his lungs as they kissed, kissed again. Rabun’s hands were on Tony’s hips, fingers digging into his sides as he pulled them together. Too long, it had been too long and Tony was drowning in his need. He moaned into Rabun’s mouth, tasting his lip, nipping at the man’s jaw. “I wasn’t sure you were real,” Tony confessed. “I couldn’t find you.” 

Rabun pulled back a little, the cooler air rushed between them and Tony shivered, wanting to chase down that heat. “Were you looking for me?” 

“You didn’t think I would?” 

Tony probably should have expected that incredulous look. He was, after all, notorious for his wide variety of bedmates and his almost utter lack of permanent partners. A strange flare of pain, not that he’d been misjudged, but that Rabun might have thought Tony cared so little. 

Rabun gave him a shrug, just the lift of his shoulders. “I found you now,” he said, simply. He moved backward, down the stairs, one hand just barely holding Tony’s fingertips. Tony could easily have refused to go, but the siren’s call of Rabun’s lips was hard to ignore, those dexterous fingers. Tony wanted more, and he wasn’t in the habit of denying himself things that he wanted. 

“Why didn’t you call?” 

Rabun smiled, grim. “I have powerful enemies, Mr. Stark,” he said, “ones who would not be pleased to see me with one such as you. Nor, even, are there many that I call friends who would look kindly on this liaison. We shall have to be very cautious.” 

Well, that much was true; Tony wasn’t exactly a non-entity. Anyone in relationship with him had some degree of risk. “Have I put you in danger?” 

Rabun laughed a little at that thought, opening the door behind him and leading Tony into a well furnished room, not quite as richly furnished as his own, but not shabby. “We have placed each other in peril,” he said. “Unknowingly, perhaps. You certainly shook my plans, Mr. Stark.” 

“Tony,” Tony said, and he moved quick and steady, backing Rabun up until they could shut the door, and then he was kissing the man again, eager. Rabun was no less urgent, shoving Tony against the door and thrusting his tongue into Tony’s mouth, tasting, exploring. It was a kiss, Tony thought, desperately, just a kiss. It shouldn’t turn his bones to water, make his knees weak and his blood boil. And yet, every inch of him was tingling. His palms itched to caress bare skin and he could not, _simply could not_ get enough. 

“Tony,” Rabun murmured and Tony wanted to suck the sound right out of his mouth. All he could do was yearn for it. Tony wrapped his arms around Rabun’s neck, drawing him closer, one leg sliding up to rest on the taller man’s hip. He rubbed himself along the length of Rabun’s body, feeling the other man’s arousal in a hot press against his thigh. Rabun opened his mouth, teased out Tony’s tongue, drew him inside. It was heated and lewd, a tangle of tongues and a scrape of teeth. It was thrust and withdrawal, a deep echo of the coupling instinct. Tony rutted against Rabun’s leg, needing, _aching_ for that friction. 

Tony’s heart throbbed wildly, his pulse pounding in his ears, the strain of lungs too empty of air. “God, I want you, want you,” he murmured, his mouth racing down the side of Rabun’s throat, heated skin under his lips and tongue. 

“I need it,” Rabun confessed. “I didn’t want to, it’s dangerous, but… Tony, I need it. I couldn’t resist. Forgive me.” 

And there was his mouth again, full and soft and parted, tongue flicking out to taste Tony’s lip. His hands came up to Tony’s chest and at first Tony thought he was going to be pushed away. _Oh, sweetheart, not yet, not yet._ He wasn’t ready to give it up, this fire that burned and warmed and was threatening to burn his life down around his ears. 

Rabun’s deft fingers were on his shirt, plucking the buttons free from their plackets. Tony wanted to cover his chest at first, hiding the arc reactor, but Rabun grabbed his wrist, dragged it up over his head, pinning Tony’s arm to the wall. _Oh, yes._ Tony let his head fall back with a strangled moan, needy and aching. Rabun kissed him again, biting on Tony’s lower lip and pulling it out. He finished with the buttons and Tony’s skin was bared to him. 

Both his hands were pinned over his head now, wrists crossed inside Rabun’s iron grip. He kept one hand pressed over Tony’s hands, holding him in place, while his other hand roamed the expanse of Tony’s skin, tracing fiery lines. Tony’s heart throbbed once, twice, hard, as Rabun ran an exploratory finger over the cold surface of the arc reactor, Tony’s weakness and folly writ large on his skin, a deep and essential part of him. A dark twist of terror added spice to the longing, and Rabun merely bent to capture Tony’s mouth again. 

“It’s beautiful,” Rabun murmured. “Like you. Unique and powerful.” 

 _And vulnerable._  

Tony managed to open his eyes. “Take me to bed.” He wasn’t sure if he was giving orders or begging for a favor. He didn’t care. He just needed. 

* * *

Doom was a fool. 

No man was worth this, no kiss, no touch. Doom was putting everything at risk by courting Tony Stark. It was momentary folly. He returned to Latveria and vowed to think no more of it. He threw the napkin in the fire and then burned himself, reaching for it in regret. 

His instinct was to take. There were dungeons that could hold the might of one such as Iron Man, there were cuffs that could bind him, spells that could steal away his will and make him Doom’s. 

The thought made Doom ill. 

No. Doom would not take that which was not freely offered. Tony deserved better than that. Testing, Tony had said. Experiments. 

Doom would see. The experience was so far beyond the simple and necessary coupling that Doom had done before, of course it was fresh and sharp in his mind. Time should tame it, ease the ache, the need, the want. 

And still, night after night, Doom found himself waking in a sweat, hard and aching, or his sheets stained with his own emissions, reaching for a man who was not there. Who could not possibly be Doom’s. 

It was no good. Doom must understand this phenomenon better. Doom had to know. Maybe Iron Man could not belong to Doom, but that did not mean that Rabun Alal could not belong, in part, to Anthony Stark. 

The best way to meet, Doom decided, was under the cover of business. Both Stark Industries and the various shadow corporations that were owned in whole or in part by Latverian interests were in high demand in the tech industry. Doom turned his attention down that road, found a point of contact. A tiny company, working on clean water and fresh air, was found to have some shares owned, up several chains, by Doom. He pushed money and people in that direction, urged the cooperation, then, when the time came, put a word in the right ear. Anthony Stark should come to celebrate their cooperative success. 

From there, it was easy. A few bribed bellhops and Doom knew what hotel Stark was staying at. He bought out some of the kitchen staff. Arranged the letter. And waited. 

And now Tony was half dressed and writhing in Doom’s arms… 

Doom was a fool. 

There were things he should have wanted instead, things he should have done instead. He had Iron Man right here, alone in a hotel room where no one would ever think to look for them, and… 

Tony wasn’t struggling against Doom’s hold. He was panting softly into Doom’s ear, teeth nipping at the shell, breath hot and ticklish. Doom could have broken Tony’s neck in a heartbeat and instead he was pushing, one handed, at the man’s belt, unbuckling it and tugging at the zipper of his pants. 

Doom moved his hand restlessly over the front of Tony’s slacks, but there was still too much cloth in the way. Infuriating. He released Tony’s wrists to better take care of that annoyance, and Tony wasted no time at all in putting his own hands to good use, peeling off Doom’s shirt and licking at his exposed collarbone. Tony urged Doom onward, with moans and whimpers and whispers of encouragement. “Yes, like that, oh, god, yes…” 

Tony’s fingers dipped under the waistband of Doom’s pants. Doom inhaled sharply, badly, desperately shaken by how badly that unmanned him, just the brush of his fingertips against Doom’s aching cock. 

He was a fool. 

But Tony’s mouth wasn’t feigning, couldn’t be. Those kisses were too real, too messy and needy for a calculated seduction, the sounds coming from his mouth were raw and honest. If Doom was a fool, Tony was one as well. 

They crashed together like waves, stripping off clothing. Touching each other, exploring. Tony’s fingers found that sensitive place at the small of Doom’s back that brought him, arching up onto his toes, and explored that, soft strokes and quick, ticklish brushes. 

Tony nudged him toward the bed, and Doom took a few steps backward, leaving his trousers behind without a glance, eager and needy. Unfinished business. He wanted, needed, to find out what this was between them, this restless, relentless longing. Surely, another experiment, another night, another touch, another copulation would be enough to sate him.   

 _Don’t let go. Don’t ever let me go._  

Tony’s arms tightened around him and they fell over onto the bed, tangled with each other. Doom wasn’t sure where his body left off and Tony’s began. Tony’s skin was hot and silken under his hands and mouth. He wanted to brand himself on Tony’s body, mark him, and so he did, biting down on Tony’s shoulder until the man keened, arching up into the pressure. 

He was quivering with anticipation, a deep swirling of desire in the base of his spine that ignited every nerve ending. Doom found himself on his back, Tony above him, possessive and eager, his mouth tracing a line down Doom’s chest. He lingered, tasting and nipping at Doom’s hip, his hand following after. His fingers trailed a light line down the path of black curls that led to Doom’s cock, and then Tony’s hand was wrapped around him, tugging light and experimentally. 

Doom moved his hands over Tony’s back and shoulders, feeling the powerful, lithe muscles, built from years of wearing his iron armor, like a blacksmith of old. Compact and yet strong, beautiful arms, lined and gleaming with a faint sheen of perspiration. Tony’s mouth on his prick was a wondrous shock and Doom canted his hips into that brilliant, slick and wet caress. He’d waited a lifetime to be shocked like that, would do nothing except marvel at it. His hands went into Tony’s hair, holding him there. 

 _Don’t stop. Never stop._  

Tony slid up Doom’s body again, got them lined up, slippery with Tony’s spit, and rubbed their cocks together. Doom groaned, it felt so good he might have screamed except Tony’s mouth came down on his again. Their lips writhed against the other, shaping and plundering. 

“I want you,” Tony said, against Doom’s jaw. “Want to take you in, feel you in me, nice and slick and long. Want you to fuck me, feel me, be mine. Make me yours. I want that, can you… do you… will you?” 

“ _Yes_.” And Doom would, because it was what Doom wanted, as well, wanted that lithe body pinned under his, wriggling and moaning. If Doom didn’t lose it right there, just thinking about it. 

Doom knew this was a possibility, that Tony would come to his room, for this purpose. Doom wanted it, wanted it too. Needed. 

Doom rolled Tony over, pressing him into the mattress, grinding his cock against Tony’s, feeling the slide give way to delicious friction. He dropped his mouth to Tony’s chest, licking his way down. The skin near the arc reactor was colder, slicker, and tasted of metal. Tony shivered at the touch, eyes intense as he watched what Doom was doing. Doom worked his way across, took one of those pretty, plump nipples into his mouth and sucked, licking at the rapidly contracting flesh. Doom let his teeth scrape over the sensitive area and Tony inhaled, bucking up off the bed to bring himself closer. 

“Yeah, like that,” Tony murmured. “I want that.” The sounds and whimpers that Tony was making were even better than they’d been that night in the broom closet and Doom could happily have spent the next hour or longer making Tony beg for it, save for Doom’s own need, which was urgent enough to want to get right down to it. 

Doom went lower and Tony spread his legs like the wanton everyone knew he was. Doom grabbed a shapely ankle and pushed Tony’s thigh back, opening and spreading him even further, got his first look at Tony’s tight pucker. He circled that sensitive skin with one finger and couldn’t help the smug grin that touched his lips as Tony whimpered and shuddered at the contact. 

He’d stocked the bedside table with supplies, and he paused tormenting Tony to get them, lube and condoms. Doom wet his middle finger and breached Tony without anymore niceties. Tony gasped, canted his hips and hissed through the pressure. Doom played, pressing and twisting his wrist, getting Tony worked up and back to moaning. He pushed a second finger in, god, Tony was tight and hot, the muscle pulling at him. He kept that up, adding more lube as he needed until Tony was incoherent with need, writhing and sweating and twisting on the bed. 

“Please, please, now,” he whined, hands gripping the bedclothes, twisting them into knots. Doom tossed Tony the condom packet, and watched with delight as Tony struggled to open the packet and get it on for Doom while Doom still played with his ass, keeping him shuddering and shaking the whole time. “God, that’s… oh shit, that’s… evil.” 

 _Evil_. That was nothing but the truth, and yet it gave Doom pause, and he stopped, pulling his fingers out and let Tony get the condom in place, his fingers teasing against Doom’s skin. 

In one smooth motion, Doom slid in, buried his cock in Tony’s lush, squirming body. Oh, yes, this would be very, very good. Tony was tight and hot, but experienced enough that he adjusted to the stretch. They moved well together, slick and easy. Doom gripped Tony’s ankles, pushed them back, got a better angle, and it was good, so good. Doom concentrated on the slick, tight friction between them, how fantastic Tony’s body felt, squeezing around him. Tony pushed down, clenched, at every stroke. Tony was shuddering, shaking, and Doom thrust into him, over and over. Taking everything he could. Giving everything he had. 

They fit, they fit together so well. Doom fell harder, losing his grip. Tony wrapped his legs around Doom’s waist, pulling him in tight. Each sound and movement brought him closer to the edge, his blood burned in his veins, his heart throbbed in his chest, his lungs working like bellows. 

Tony reached down, touched himself and arched up into it, nearly bringing Doom to his climax. Doom grabbed Tony’s hands, forced them down into the mattress. 

“You’re not going to let me come?” There was a teasing note to that, as if the pleasure of waiting was greater than the orgasm. 

“I’ll make you come,” Doom threatened, dark and growling in Tony’s ear. “When I am ready for you.” 

“Arrogant bastard,” Tony accused, fondly. 

“Best you’ll ever have,” Doom retorted. He changed angles, watched until Tony’s eyes widened and his mouth opened in shock. “There you go, there you are.” He thrust, hard, nailing Tony’s prostate mercilessly, kept Tony’s hands in place, denied him the friction he craved until Tony was practically crying with need. 

Tony was twisting under him, wriggling and shifting his hips with desperate jerks, the slick pull between them grew until Doom was seeking nothing but his own release, orgasm building in the base of his balls like fire. He let go of Tony’s hands, slid his arms under the other man’s back and pulled them together. Precome from Tony’s cock slid along Doom’s belly as he fucked Tony into the mattress, and suddenly Tony cried out. “Oh, Christ!” He spent himself, hot and wet and slick, over Doom’s belly. 

His muscles tightened around Doom’s length, squeezing and fluttering. Too much, and not enough. Doom buried his face against Tony’s shoulder, let himself release. Yes, there. Right there. _I have you._  

Doom shuddered through the rest of his climax, feeling the sticky, sweat-slicked skin under his cheek. 

He should have been sated, satisfied. 

He should have pulled out and sent the man on his way. 

And yet… 

Madness. Idiocy. 

 _What is this?_  

Doom pulled Tony even closer, mouthing absently at the man’s neck, feeling the pulse there stutter and gradually slow. 

“I… wow.” Tony ran a soothing hand over Doom’s back. 

Wow. Right. Exactly. 

Doom grimaced and pulled himself out and off, chilly as sweat dried on his skin. 

“That was…” 

Doom nodded, not even caring what superlative Tony used to describe their act. He bit his lip for just a moment, then reached out one hand. “Stay?” 

“God, yes,” Tony said, curling his fingers around Doom’s palm. 

Doom peeled down the blankets and they snuggled under them, Tony spooning against Doom’s chest. There was… something. A clench in Doom’s chest. 

Madness. Idiocy. 

Love? 

 _Fuck_. 

What was Doom supposed to do now? 

* * *

Tony was nudged awake in the darkness to an insistent erection pressed into his thigh. He rolled over and Rabun took care of them in the most pleasurable way possible. Tony wasn’t young anymore, and Rabun was gray-haired with faint lines at the corners of his eyes. They shouldn’t have gone twice on one day, much less four times in one night, but they did. 

“Will you call me, this time?” Tony asked, when he was finally dressing. Much as he would have loved to stay the day in bed with Rabun, he had come to Morocco for a reason, and it wasn’t to be fucked out of his mind. 

“I will,” Rabun said, still naked and draped over his bed like one of those naughty French paintings. God, he was glorious. 

“All right, then,” Tony said, and wrote his number down. 

“I won’t be here when you get back,” Rabun cautioned. “We have to be careful.” 

“Your enemies,” Tony said. Nodded. Hated it. He could protect the man, surely, from whatever enemies he had. But Rabun had not said from what he might need protecting, and… 

“I thought,” Rabun said, scratching at his chin thoughtfully, “that this might… be an aberration. I wanted to know what would happen. But you are getting under my skin. I fear I will not be satisfied. It will not be enough.” 

“Yeah,” Tony said. He came back to the bed and claimed a kiss, and then another, because Rabun wasn’t the only one who couldn’t be satisfied. 

“I’ll call you. Soon.” 

“I’ll count the minutes,” Tony said, and he wasn’t even exaggerating. He finished dressing and left. Heard the door close, and then a moment later, lock behind him. He stopped in the hall and let his head rest against the cool plaster of the wall. 

One minute. 

Two minutes. 

It was going to be a long wait.


	3. Doom's Day Scenario

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doom rules a nation of half a million people. It might be time for Doom to think about that, just a little bit...
> 
> And, while he's dragging his nation out of the middle ages by sheer force of will, he might have a little time to spend on the side with his new boyfriend... 
> 
> Part three of that IronDoom fic that nobody asked for...

New text from Unknown: _Grand Hotel, Stockholm. Friday night 9pm local. Ask at desk for Mr. Alil._

Tony’s phone nearly spilled out of his hand, he was shaking that hard. Twenty-thousand, six hundred and fifty two minutes since he’d heard anything from Rabun, and Tony had been an absolute terror. Even Pepper had given up trying to coax him into some semblance of civility, banished him to the workshop rather than make clients and partners work with him, and even refused to let him even attend the board’s semi-annual meeting.

Being in the workshop hadn’t helped. He’d yelled at DUM-E so often that the bot was sulking in his charging station and refusing to hear Tony’s apology. Tony hadn’t been able to create. He hadn’t been able to do anything useful. He’d just sulked, poked at a few old ideas, drank breakfast, forgot about lunch, slept through dinner. Tony Stark, fully capable of sleeping anywhere except in an actual goddamn bed, and his back wasn’t thanking him for that, at all.

And suddenly the ache in his chest was eased, enough that he filled his lungs with air, it felt, for the first time in days. He became aware of how hungry he was, and for that matter, the fact that he smelled of unwashed sweat and motor oil. He checked his phone; the message hadn’t disappeared. That would be a nightmare, and he knew that for a fact because it was one he’d had. That he’d gotten a call or a text or anything, and woken up a few minutes later to find out that nothing of the sort had happened.

Wednesday? How had it gotten to be Wednesday already? Okay, Tony supposed if you were thinking in terms of hours and minutes, days of the week sort of faded out to unimportance.

But it gave him some time. Food first, then shower, and then… he was pretty sure he could finish that improvement to the suit’s power conversion system, to eke another six percent out of the repulsors.

“JARVIS?”

“Yes, sir?” The AI sounded relieved, which was somewhat annoying. Tony Stark was a grown-assed man, he could take care of himself just fine, thank you very much.

“Set an alarm for me, I absolutely need to be in Stockholm by 6, local time. Get a hotel room, and --”

“Are you flying, sir, or _flying_?”

“Smart ass,” Tony muttered, looking for his multitool, he was sure he’d left it around here -- aha! There were problems with either answer. Tony Stark’s private jet was not what one would call discreet, although it wouldn’t be the first time he just randomly up and went someplace. On the other hand, the Iron Man suit was waaaay beyond incognito and everyone noticed him. One of these days, he really needed to build a stealth suit. He made a note in one glowing screen in front of him and flipped it into his ever-growing honey-do list. He certainly wasn’t flying commercial.

“I’ll take the jet,” he decided. Easier to explain that he’d gotten himself a craving for fläskpannkaka or something and gone out for dinner. “But don’t let me be late.”

“Of course not, sir,” JARVIS said, “provided you actually heed any of my reminders.”

“That’s it, you’re going off-line and I’m going to break you down for spare parts to run my GPS.”

“I tremble in fear,” JARVIS responded.

“You should,” Tony said. “I threw the last GPS out the window; it kept telling me to make legal u-turns as soon as possible.”

“If you would not persist in driving in the wrong direction --”

Tony held up one finger and JARVIS shut his synthetic trap, which was good, because Tony thought he finally had a handle on that oscillating quantuum pulse phenomenon. He jotted that down, tagged it, and sent it to the correct file, letting his fingers fly over systems and notes and wireframes and designs without hesitation, fully back in his zone for the first time in weeks. It was _wonderful_.

* * *

What started as a chess move in the game of figuring out what the hell was going on inside his head and heart had ended with a crate of advanced biological water filters. The technology was decades ahead of most; the various clean-water crises that developed across the globe (Flint, Michigan, Burkina Faso -- where less than thirteen percent of the population had access to clean water -- or Chad, which had an even lower population, and a brutal rate of water-contamination related deaths) had driven the Morocco to push funding toward clean, sustainable water supplies.

Latveria was an enforced monarchy; the one law of the land was that Doom would provide.

For all that, in essence, Doom’s country was under military guard all the time, that speaking out against his leadership was a crime punishable by death, and that no one was allowed to enter, or leave, the country without his express permission, Doom took care of his people.

In theory.

Doom summoned his court advisor. Did the man even have a name? Doom couldn’t remember. He’d been so busy with dreams of world conquest, with fighting endless battles with the Fantastic Four (more like Fantastic two, one jackass and an ambulatory wall) that he’d been neglecting his duties.

The advisor, a wispy-looking sort, who bowed so deep that his head brushed against the floor, was trembling to be called into Doom’s presence. That was no good.

Doom ran his fingers under the jawline seam of his armor. No one, save Tony Stark, had seen his face in decades, not his servants, his enemies, not even his people. No one. He wondered what the man thought was below the Doom mask. Perhaps… the scar had not bothered Tony, had not been anything but a mild curiosity. Tony’s fingers had touched Doom along the scar and the world had not ended. For such a small thing, Doom had hidden his face, kept himself free of human entanglements and a simple caress had changed… everything.

Doom sighed. He was not ready.

“Report on the state of Latveria,” Doom commanded. “Honest. Doom requires knowledge of the problems of the people.”

It had taken rather a lot of Doom’s most tactful words -- and he did not have a ready supply of them -- and persuasion to get the advisor to speak to facts. Even as the man had done so, he’d been shaking the entire time.

Doom couldn’t decide if he required a new advisor, or if his advisor was in dire need of a sedative. Probably both.

In the end, Doom had to bring in outside consultants, and the first reports that they brought in were not favorable, although they were less dire than perhaps they might have been.

Most of Doom’s people were homed, which made his rate of poverty slightly above global norms, but part of that was because policy had dictated that the homeless persons were not to bother the sight of their beloved rulers, so those who could not find stable housing were either incarcerated, or worse, executed.

Fortunately, as a monarchy, Doom didn’t have to press laws through a congress or house of lords, but he still had to notify each and every single one of his enforcers -- although many of them were Doombots and therefore a simple software update was all that was required -- there were still some remote villages where the local enforcement were all too human, and all too used to having their own way.

He’d had to stomp down firmly on one incident, but in the end, Doom gathered all those who were not currently housed and put them to work. Machinery was brought in to clear the grounds; for the first time in centuries, a new town would be founded. Trees were uprooted, the area cleared. Everyone who could work was put on the task.

Now, Doom just needed housing. He’d taken the opportunity while abroad to look into the technology that other nations were developing and Sweden had some pretty good ideas, including easily fabricated housing. The materials were weather-proof for both heat and cold, kept rain and ice out, were easily adapted to whatever sort of foundations were available, and came with solar panels and ventilation air cooling, that they would not be a drain on a country’s already strained resources.

Perfect. Doom booked travel, that he might speak with the production engineers there, under the name of his travel alias, Rabun Alil, a business investor. He’d get the contracts set up, have the materials shipped into Latveria by air -- it would take some small amount of time, since the one airport was decades old and not large, but there were so few routes into and out of his nation. Doom and his ancestors had been very interested in keeping the population isolated, but that was not going to go well anymore. The world was too small for that.

He purchased a burner phone as soon as he was outside the borders and sent Tony a message. He would be in Sweden for the week, but there was no reason he couldn’t combine a little pleasure with business.

He sent the text, then crushed the phone in one metal-enclosed gauntlet. He would never use a phone twice; that made him much too easy to track. Doom removed his suit and dressed, for the first time in decades, as merely himself, as Victor, and boarded a plane in Hungary, bound for Sweden. A few days work and he could, perhaps, look forward to seeing Tony for the week’s end.

* * *

The desk clerk had an envelop for Tony when he asked for Mr. Alil. Out slid another card key and a note with the same impeccable, decorative handwriting.

The room was empty when Tony entered it, no warm, welcoming smile greeted him. Tony put his overnight bag down and prowled through the room. Rabun had left a bag, a laptop computer, some brochures, and a plate of chocolate dipped fruit, along with a bottle of champagne that was slowly sinking into the bucket of melting ice.

Tony made himself at home, drank a sparkling water from the mini-fridge, and helped himself to some chocolates. He was a bit tired; the renewed energy he’d gotten from the text had been burned into his work, a rather lengthy apology to Pepper, and then the Avengers had called on him for a little bit of saving the world. All in all, he’d barely managed to sleep before he was on the jet and headed across the ocean.

Tony stretched out on the sofa and stared at the mural that had been painted on the ceiling, all pudgy angels and depictions of God giving life to the earth. Tony let his eyes drift shut.

A heavy, warm hand came down on his shoulder some unknown time later. “You don’t want to sleep here, love,” a familiar voice spoke. “You’ll hurt your neck.”

Tony mumbled, tried to roll over and found himself blocked by a muscular chest.  He managed to pry open his lids, saw a beautiful mouth that turned up in a warm smile, familiar amber-hazel eyes. Then the smile vanished and Rabun leaned in to kiss him.

A touch of lip to Tony’s. Only that, and the world shifted under Tony, rocking uncertainly. Tony reached up, touched Rabun’s face, his thumb tracing the line of his scar. “Good morning, gorgeous,” he said, voice still sleep-muzzed.

“Sorry I’m late, beloved,” Rabun said, and he ran one hand down Tony’s shoulder, traced the line all the way until he gripped Tony’s wrist, rubbing his thumb lightly against the pulse point.

“What have you been doing?”

“Investing,” came the evasive reply. Rabun kissed Tony’s cheek, then lifted him as easily as if the genius was a doll. “Come to bed.” The sheer, physical power of Rabun was exciting, hot. The way he cradled Tony to his chest in a possessive manner. Rabun pressed his mouth to Tony’s as he crossed the room, tasting and challenging, like a dare that Tony wasn’t quite certain he was strong enough to handle, and yet, Tony had never yet backed down. He returned Rabun’s kiss with energy, the feel and taste of his mouth was beyond sweet. Dangerous and tempting, nothing like the current of kisses he’d experienced before, but a great undertow that would suck him down and drown him in desire.

Tony circled his arms around Rabun’s neck, held on while the world tumbled away into nothingness. Tony had tasted Rabun’s mouth a dozen times or more, and still, the mere memory of the touch of his lips kept Tony awake at night, restless, dreamless. Sweet like sin, dark like coffee.

Rabun met his kiss headlong, mouth pressing tight to Tony’s, his tongue curling in tempting dance, the feel of his mouth heated with wanting.

Secured in Rabun’s arms, Tony was still dizzy, like falling, like flight. He wasn’t sure where he was going to land, and he didn’t particularly care. In the back of his brain, a small voice murmured of danger, of foolishness, but Tony shoved it aside. What good were warnings when he was already drunk on Rabun’s kisses? What need was there of caution, when he’d already thrown it to the wind? He let Rabun bear him down onto the bed, stripping him out of his clothes as they consumed each other in the fire of their passion.

* * *

New text from Unknown: _Mandarin Presidential Suite, Tokyo, Tuesday_

Crap. Tony stared at his phone in dismay.

_I can’t, baby. How long will you be there?_ He thumbed as quick as he could. Rabun’s phones never lasted long, the number was often out of commision within an hour. Paranoia, Tony had accused him, but they didn’t talk much about it. There was a lot they didn’t talk about, despite the hours they spent laying in each other’s arms, speaking of everything else under the sun.

Rabun was formally educated, a fan of Western literature. The faintest trace of his accent put Tony in mind of Romania, or another one of those small, eastern European nations. They watched British sports together -- Rabun was in particular fond of cricket and he thought American football was the second stupidest thing in the world, immediately after synchronized swimming.

In the last several months, Tony had found himself dragged to the opera a few times, which became a lot more sexy with Rabun leaning over and whispering translations of German, Italian, and French in his ear. Tony didn’t need the Italian, but he didn’t bother to mention it, liking the feel of Rabun’s body draped over his.

They explored various cities together; Rabun’s business, whatever it was, kept him travelling. They seldom met in the same country more than once. Rabun was an adventurous gourmet, willing to try just about anything, but always vocal when he didn’t like a thing. To Tony’s shock and eternal amusement, Rabun hadn’t had much experience with sweets; things like chocolate and ice cream were novelties, and Tony had spent a lot of time dragging the man to various confectionaries.

New text from Unknown: _Not long enough. Beijing in three weeks. I’ll miss you._

Fucking Senate hearing. Tony wanted to scream. He’d tried dodging them before, and that had been more trouble than it was worth. Tony was the public face of the Avengers, taking all their PR slack and turning their actions into legal activities. If he missed the hearing, Fury would have Tony’s head on a platter. Not that Tony was afraid of Fury, but honestly, Fury just made his life harder when thwarted.

_Yeah, miss you, too._

* * *

Beijing had been a shit show of epic measure.

The Skrullz had gotten up to some ridiculous plot in the midwest, of all places, so by the time Tony showed up in China, he was exhausted from three days of fighting and then another day of dodging the press; one of whom actually had a photograph of Tony with some unknown man in Germany and wanted to know who Tony’s new sweetheart was. That had taken some clever dodging.

And then when he finally got to China, there’d been a mix up with the hotels, and Rabun wasn’t where Tony had expected him to be. By the time he got a second text with the new direction, Tony was beyond dead on his feet.

When Rabun had finally found Tony -- who’d checked into a random hotel just to get off his fucking feet -- Tony had been cranky, underfed, uncaffeinated. They’d almost had a fight. God knows, Tony had been trying his damndest to pick one, because it was starting to feel to him like he was at Rabun’s beck and call.

“I have obligations, my darling,” Rabun had said. “It is not mere business that takes me ‘round the globe. There are people depending on me.”

“Yeah, well,” Tony sulked, “it’s not like you don’t know where I live.”

Which Tony did not know about his lover, not even what country the man was from. When asked, Rabun had said little, except that his home was empty, and too large. Tony could sympathize with that, he’d been in Stark Mansion a few times after his parents’ death and the huge home seemed cold without another living soul in it. Tony’d had the place shut down and rarely visited.

“You know we have to be careful,” Rabun said. He pulled Tony into his lap, nuzzling at his neck.

“I just feel like you’re not prioritizing,” Tony complained. “That… I don’t mean as much to you -- I drop _everything_ to come see you, all the time. You don’t even keep the same phone long enough for me to have a conversation.”

“I don’t exist in your world, Tony,” Rabun said, heaving a great sigh. “I would put you at risk, terrible risk, if we were found out. We meet like this because it is all that I can have.”

“You know who I am,” Tony pointed out.

“I do,” Rabun said. “I have made a great study of your Avengers. I know your capabilities. Now, will you believe me when I say, _this puts you at risk_. I do not underestimate your abilities, nor do I overstate the threat. I am working, even now, to change things, that it will be different, but those events take time to set in motion. It may be years before we can… have anything other than this. Will you not… do you not want to give me the time?”

Tony closed his eyes, resting his forehead against Rabun’s neck. “Whatever you need. I’m sorry, I just… I’ve missed you.”

“And I, you,” Rabun said, carding his fingers through Tony’s hair. “Truth, each day seems an eternity that I am not with you. My plans. So much has changed, since we met. My life was empty and I did not even know it.” He nipped at Tony’s mouth, coaxing and gentle until Tony couldn’t stand the light touches any longer and threw himself into the kiss with as much heat and passion as he could.

“I didn’t mean to interfere with your life,” Tony said, teasing.

“Yes, and how dare you,” Rabun responded, licking at Tony’s neck, tempting him out of his clothing. “You have ruined me with your mouth and wrecked me against your body; you have changed me forever, that I might never want another, but you.”

“Oh, this is all my fault now?” Tony had his hands under Rabun’s shirt, those fine, taut muscles and silk-soft skin luxurious under his fingertips. “I’ve what, been throwing myself at you and you’re just --”

“Giving in to your wiles and seductions,” Rabun said. He yanked Tony’s slacks open, pushing the fabric down Tony’s thighs. “Overwhelmed by you.”

“Well, I am pretty amazing,” Tony said. They weren’t going to make it to the bed this time, Tony could tell. That was all right, he was just as eager to get his hands on his lover, to touch and kiss and caress. To feel Rabun’s mouth; the man had a damn talented tongue and left bruise and bite marks on Tony’s neck that he’d sometimes had to hide with makeup, just so he didn’t look completely debauched at stockholder meetings.

“You are,” Rabun said. “perfection.” The fire was back, driving Tony to distraction. He got his hand inside Rabun’s pants, rubbed at the hot length and groaned with appreciation as Rabun threw his head back and cried out with need. God, the man was beautiful, from the silver tips of his hair, down amber colored eyes, a firm, fine mouth and determined chin. He was scarred here and there, had been shot at least three times that Tony could tell from old wound-marks. Not that Tony’s body told a much different story.

Sometimes it seemed that their clothing melted away, other times it was impatient, frustrating work getting down to bare skin. That night was a dream, peeling away the layers and taking their time, touching and caressing, not in such a hurry, knowing they’d get there, finally, finally.

Rabun’s mouth on him was a blessing, the sweetest sin and Tony arched into it, the head of his cock slipping into that plush, wet mouth. He raised his hips off the sofa and Rabun tugged his pants the rest of the way down, hands smoothing the way. Nudging at the back of Rabun’s throat, it was so good, so slick, and if Tony didn’t concentrate on his breathing he was going to disgrace himself by coming inside two minutes. That would never do. And yet, Rabun wouldn’t back down, wouldn’t slow, just kept his head moving as Tony thrust up and god, that was --

“Shit, shit, shit,” Tony chanted, and Rabun pinned his hips down, holding him so tight he could barely move, couldn’t do anything but submit to the wet pull of Rabun’s mouth, the tantalizing tongue. Tony’s body arched and twisted, he had no control, was totally enthralled by what Rabun was doing to him, how good it felt, how necessary. He lost any sense of what he was doing, just needed, needed to feel. His hands twisted against Rabun’s hair, the short, silken locks sliding between his fingers. Lower still, and Tony’s fingers sank into the hard shoulders, nails biting down as he held on for dear life.  His blood was rushing in his veins and pounding in his head. Everything was shaking, his legs, his belly tightened. “Oh, god…”

Rabun didn’t stop when Tony came, didn’t even give him a chance to catch his breath. He just snagged the bottle of lube and started prep, his mouth still working over Tony’s oversensitive and slowly deflating cock. Tony squirmed, almost struggled, too jittery to relax. He cried out, more than once, as Rabun worked a finger into him, and then a second. His cock ached, too much, too hot, and finally, almost in self-defense, grew hard again.

“There you are,” Rabun said, finally pulling his mouth off, and Tony heaved for breath, tender and throbbing.

“Well, it’s pointless to stop now,” Tony said, petulant.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Rabun said. He dragged Tony’s thighs up, hooked them over his shoulders. “Can I --” he stopped, gazing up into Tony’s face “-- without?”

God, that was… Tony shuddered. Trust, on both sides. He knew he was clean, a benefit of having one’s own personal doctor. Ever since Afghanistan, he’d been wary of hospitals and he had never been a big fan of medical care even before that, but the arc reactor had made it necessary. “I’m clean,” he said. “If you are.”

Rabun slicked himself and breached the ring of muscle. Tony wriggled, feeling his body giving way, slow and sensual, burning ache and stretch. Slowly, the faint pain faded, the pressure eased, and his muscles let go, letting Rabun in. Rabun leaned down, pressed in further, touched his mouth to Tony’s and as Tony twined his arms around Rabun’s neck, to pull his lover closer, the excitement and need came back. Rabun worked in him, slow, almost too slow, and Tony groaned. “Come on, come on,” he said, urgent, his fingers tightening on the back of Rabun’s neck.

Rabun thrust into him, again, and again, and Tony’s body moved without his direction, matching stroke for stroke, crooning encouragements and need into Rabun’s ear. Like some transcendent experience, he was lifted up and dropped

“So gorgeous,” Rabun was murmuring in his ear, and Tony could barely hear it, so wrapped up was he in the movements and the feelings and the thick, sensual slide of Rabun’s cock, and…

“Oh, my… god.” Tony twisted his hips.

“Yes, love, I’ve got you,” Rabun said, and then he ducked his chin, groaning as he thrust one last time into Tony. “That’s… exactly. Right.”

Tony drifted, hazy on the cloud of hormones and bliss. He couldn’t explain it, didn’t want to, how safe and warm and perfect he felt. He patted one hand on Rabun’s shoulder. What had Rabun said? It seemed important somehow. “Love you, too.”

* * *

“What?”

Tony groaned, leaning back in his desk chair. He didn’t want to be talking to Reed Richards. Richards annoyed the shit out of him, if for no other reason that the man was almost as smart as he thought himself to be. Arrogant, annoying, and with the personality of a cheese grater. And when Tony was feeling generous, probably Tony’s equal, just in an unrelated field. But like all geniuses, Richards was convinced that his field of expertise was the _most_ important, that his intellect was the most keen.

Which, obviously, it was not.

“We think Doom’s gotten his hands on some of your tech,” Richards said. “Not sure what, or what he plans to do with it. Since I can’t make heads or tails of your spare parts, Sue thought you should come with us.”

“You’re going to Latveria?”

“Doom’s been all over the world, recently, but the last movement we had on him, he was home. Come with us, we’ll knock on his door and Ben can beat the tar out of him for a while.”

“Does that actually work?” Tony sighed. It was going to create an international incident, to raid Latveria without any sort of evidence. Although, knowing Doom, there would be something shady going on there. They could probably make it work.

“Talk to Fury, get him to issue an edict or something,” Tony said, waving a hand, forgetting that Richards couldn’t see him through a speaker phone. He pulled out his cellphone. Maybe, maybe this time…

_You there, babe?_

New text from Unknown: _Yes._

_Gonna be near Hungary in two days, if you want to meet me for a change._

New text from Unknown: _Why?_

_Superhero shit. Petty dictators. I don’t think they have good hotels in Latveria, tho, so I’ll find someplace else to go for the night. I’ll let you know._

Rabun didn’t answer, but that wasn’t unusual. Tony would see if he texted back later, from yet another new number.

* * *

Doom stared down at the burner phone. He’d forgotten to destroy it, so wrapped up in Tony’s declaration of love.

_Fuck_.

Doom was in so much trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't kill me, okay? I'll post Part Four as soon as it's done, okay?


	4. Stark Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truth fucking hurts.

At least, Tony thought, looking around at the burning city, the Avengers weren’t the only superhero group who regularly made mincemeat out of their surroundings. Hulk was really smashie, and Captain America hadn’t yet decided that opening a door was easier than crashing through the wall, not to mention the number of bad guys who tended to use Iron Man as their own personal wrecking ball.

On the other hand, Johnny Storm was literally burning the place to the ground. Human Torch? More like human dumpster fire. Tony sighed. Fire, like biological weapons, didn’t care who was killed. Tony picked his way carefully through the burning building, getting feedback every few feet to make sure the floor was still stable and the roof wasn’t going to come down on his head.

This was the warehouse that Richards had decided was probably storing Tony’s tech -- not certain what, and an in depth examination of Stark Industries records hadn’t shown anything missing. If the building hadn’t been on fire, Tony would have left it til the battle’s end to start putting pieces together. It bothered him to be letting others go into harm’s way as he examined crates and files, downloaded computer databases, and tried to figure out what Doom was up to.

Which didn’t mean that he wasn’t fighting; the doombots were annoyingly persistant and several dozen of them had followed Iron Man into the building. They were also fairly standard grunt troops and not any of the specialized attack modulars that the Avengers had dealt with before. If Tony didn’t know better, he’d suspect they’d caught Doom entirely by surprise.

He wasn’t sure he did know better, but nothing with Doom had ever been as easy and uncomplicated as he’d believed it should be. So, yeah, probably a trap somewhere lurking under the whole mess.

In one room, Tony discovered a full layout of a superlatively upgraded Doomstahdt. Latveria’s founding, centuries ago, had given it some gorgeous architecture, for like, the 1200’s, but these days, the mud huts and fantastical cathedrals were a little out of date. Modern plumbing was scarce, and while the population was generally better off than some parts of the world, Tony knew families in coal towns with more luxurious  homes than middle-class Latverians.

Except Doom seemed to be planning some major upgrades. Skyscrapers towered over the surrounding landscape, modern high-rise apartments, overly generous green public areas, underground power lines. This was going to take billions of dollars, years of work, but when it was finished… Doomstahdt was going to rival such modern cities as Singapore and Taipei.

“Guess Light Bright’s doin’ him a favor by speeding up the clearing process,” Tony muttered, leaning against the table to study the layout. At the heart, several meters underground… was a _full-sized arc-reactor_ power source. Self-reliant, clean energy. A warm light for all mankind. Tony felt a peculiar squeeze in his chest.

The underground power generator had some improvements, even to Tony’s model, amplifiers and storage cells. Tony had JARVIS capture some images; this deserved more scrutiny than he had time for right now. At least he knew what Doom had stolen, except really, Stark Industries kept careful track of the arc-reactors. Surely he would know if one of them were missing, if even the components had been illegally salvaged.

Maybe it was theoretical, something Doom was planning, but hadn’t yet acquired. Still, it made Tony nervous; the arc-reactor was a great power source; could be used to anything. To run an entire city, or to power hordes of Doombots. Better check it out. Tony launched himself up to continue a search of the burning building.

* * *

Doom watched from the sidelines; enough out of the way that his Doombots would do their job, along with the servo-guards, and others, without drawing attention to himself. He issued commands; keeping a small group of rotating servo-guards to occupy the Fantastic Four, the rest were directed to civilian evacuation and preservation tasks.

Already, Richards and Storm had dropped over several buildings and completely disrupted emergency services in the city. Doom wasn’t even certain what they were here for; Doom had not been involved in anything besides infrastructure in the last several months.

After tearing up several squads of guards, Doom finally stepped out, commanding his guards to act as if he was merely another Doombot, serving for the moment as the Voice of Doom.

“What do you want with Doom?” he demanded, marching up the street to where Richards was involved in disgusting gyrations with half a squad of servo-guards, arms and legs stretched to ridiculous and grotesque lengths.

Richards started yelling about illegal tech and weapons programs. Doom sneered behind his mask.

“Doom has acquired nothing that is not necessary to the comfort of the population of Latveria,” Doom declared, putting his hands on his hips in aggravation. He should have known that he would not be allowed to rebuild his nation.

“You should know that Stark’s tech is watched very closely, Von Doom,” Sue said. She wasn’t visible, not that that was anything new.

“Should we forget, just because Doom rules this nation, that there are half a million people living there who just want good lives? These people, who live in an enforced monarchy, we should just allow Johnny Storm to blow up their city because he’s angry with Doom?” Doom gestured around at the burning city. “Whatever Doom has done in the past, the people of Latveria deserve better!”

“They deserve better than you!” Johnny Storm yelled.

“Perhaps,” Doom said. “But that is not your choice to make. You have come to Latveria on invasion, with no evidence. Doom --” Doom turned. The warehouse was burning. He squinted; a figure in red and gold armor whizzed past one of the windows. Iron Man had been strangely absent during the battle in the city.

Doom narrowed his gaze; the fire was spreading rapidly through the building, racing toward --

Shit. The fuel packets for the arc-reactor. Stable, safe energy, but not when some idiot set it on fire. The explosion would put a crater in the middle of Latveria the size of Sudbury crater. “Fools!”

Doom turned his back on the Fantastic Assholes.

Richards tried to head him off -- literally, stretching his neck so far out to make a loop around Doom’s retreating form -- “This one’s him! Get him, Ben!”

No. Doom did not have time for this nonsense. He tore free of Richards’s grip, moving as fast as he could. Tony could not, could not be in that building when it blew.

Richards grabbed him again.

“ _Idiot_ ,” Doom growled. “If the core melts down, everyone will die!”

Doom burst into the building. The air snapped, subtle, popping Doom’s ears. Sue Storm had surrounded the entire building in one of her force-shields. Well, at least she wasn't as stupid as Richards. What she saw in that man anyway was more than Doom could understand.

Doom raced to the storage facility; the fire was already thick and even though Sue had contained the building, there was enough oxygen that it wouldn’t go out immediately. The red and gold of Tony’s armor glinted across the room.

One glance was all it took. They were, not to put too fine a point on it, doomed. The core was already burning.

Iron Man gazed into the crate, then snapped his head up to stare at Doom. There was no reading his expression behind that mask. “At least I’ll take you with me,” Tony snarled, the voice modulated by the armor, stripped of nuance.

“No,” Doom said. “I’ll take you with me.”

The core melted. Doom took three steps and crossed the room, weaving his magic behind him. A containment shield for the core, by necessity, stretching to fill the shield Sue had already locked down. The force from the inside was going to be a thousand times that of Hiroshima. Doom flung another, to protect Tony from the heat and sudden lack of oxygen, and then the building went up. Red and yellow flames engulfed everything, like being thrust suddenly into the middle of a volcano. Doom reached, grabbed Iron Man’s hand, and teleported them away.

* * *

Tony wasn’t expecting to wake up. One of these days, he was going to be right about that. Something would explode in his face and he’d just not ever wake up from that. God, sometimes he was looking forward to it, because waking up after being exploded always, always sucked.

Sometimes less than others; being blown up in Afghanistan had decidedly been worse.

Tony was flat on his back, but the material under him was relatively soft.

His body ached, but he’d had worse muscle pain after a few days of blackout drinking and partying. Not that he did that as much anymore so he wasn’t used to it.

And there didn’t seem to be anyone else in the room with him. Tony risked it and opened his eyes.

It was decidedly not a hospital, despite the bag of fluids that hung on an IV stand by his bedside. Tony traced the line down to where it fed into the peripheral port in his left hand.

The room was decorated, richly furnished, and the bed Tony was situated on had silk sheets, a rich, glowing gold. The other furnishings, a wardrobe, table, desk and chairs, were all elegant and tasteful, if not necessarily to Tony’s taste, at least to someone’s.

Tony looked down at himself; he was wearing a white linen sleep-shirt of some sort and his wounds had been tended, cleaned and wrapped. He felt sort of shitty, but that was probably a result of battle and being exploded and not the care he’d gotten.

He was, in a word, confused.

Tony scrubbed his right hand over his face and swallowed; his throat was dry and he was thirsty. His hand continued down the side of his chin and then stopped cold. Something encircled his neck like a collar. More exploring proved that entirely right. He was wearing a god damned collar. Like a dog. Like a slave.

Tony got to his feet, heedless of the IV stand, which pulled over and tugged at the site. Tony ripped it free, wincing a little. He pressed his fingers over the bleeding skin and held it down to staunch the flow. There was a mirror over the dresser on the far side of the room and he headed that way, aware of the plush carpet under his feet. What the actual fuck was going on? Where was he?

The mirror threw back his face, a little beat-up, which was normal. Black eye, again.

And a silver and green collar locked around his neck, metal, solid.

_Fuck._

The door behind him opened and Tony reached for the first object he could find to use as a weapon. Not that a vanity bench was going to do him lots of good.

The last person he expected to see was in the doorway.

“Rabun!” The vanity stool fell from nerveless fingers and smashed into the floor, breaking into pieces. “What are you doing here?”

Rabun spread his hands, his expression pained. “I live here.”

“You work for Doom.” Tony’s voice was flat. His heart ached in his chest and he could barely breathe. But Rabun would never see that. _Stark men are iron._

“I work for Latveria, yes.” Rabun didn’t smile, didn’t try to explain, didn’t say anything. He pulled out a chair from the table and practically fell into it, his whole body screaming dejection.

“You. Work for Doom. You work for the --”

“Do not,” Rabun interrupted, cutting off Tony’s tirade, mid-rant. “I work for _Latveria_. I work for my home. I cannot change where I was born and I cannot change who I was born to be. I regret that this has come to pass. I did not wish you to find out in this manner.”

Tony should be angry; he knew this, knew it like he knew his own name. He should feel betrayed. Lied to. Deceived. He should hate, with every fiber of his being, the man before him. He didn’t. Watching Rabun stare at the table, his whole body weighed down with grief, Tony could do nothing but ache. “It would put us at risk,” he said, slowly. “If it were known. Have I put you at risk, then?”

“Not just yet,” Rabun said.

“Doom saved my life,” Tony said, again, taking time with his words. There were too many questions, asking them would give away too much. He had to be careful, very careful, here, and lock away his heart. “Why would he do that?”

“For me,” Rabun said.

“He knows? About us?” What _us_? Was there an us anymore? When he didn’t even know the truth, when everything they’d made together had been built on a carefully constructed lie?

“Doom knows,” Rabun said. “Doom has always known.”

“It was a trap.” That wasn’t a question, but Rabun held out one hand, entreatingly.

“No,” Rabun said. “If Doom had wanted to entrap you, Doom would have used bait.”

Whatever ill-conceived thoughts Tony had harbored fell away. He would have fallen into that trap; he would have done anything, paid any price, if Doom had dangled Rabun in front of him. Tony had never been exactly reasonable when it came to threats against the people he loved. There were so few of them that fell into that category, Tony couldn’t stand to lose any of them.

“He knew, and he did nothing?” That, Tony found a little hard to believe.

“Doom knew. Doom allowed it. So long as it did not interfere with the project. The risk was not from Doom, but Doom’s allies. And enemies. Who would see you, who would see us, as an opportunity to exploit.”

“So, why, then, are you not at risk?”

“The world thinks you’re dead. Richards believed he was mistaken that Doom was in the explosion,” Rabun said. “Doom has made a public statement about the invasion. For once, the world’s outrage is enflamed on Latveria’s behalf.”

“So what happens now?” Tony couldn’t help but raise his hand to the collar that someone -- probably Doom -- had put around his neck.

Rabun winced. “For Doom, for you, for me,” Rabun said, “it would be best if you remained here. Not; I would prefer not as a prisoner.”

“You might as well not sugar-coat it, sweetheart,” Tony said. “If I’m here for the rest of my life without being able to leave, or have anyone know I’m still alive, that’s a prisoner, whether I’m in chains or not.”

If possible, Rabun looked even more despondent. “I know,” he said. “I wish I… that it had not… it’s worthless, my apologies. But you have it. This is not what I wanted for us.”

“Us?”

Rabun turned his head, eyes squeezing shut, his mouth twisting with pain. “I still love you,” he said.

Tony blinked. His eyes burned and his throat ached. “You never said it.”

“My great shame,” Rabun said, “that I could not say it when you would have believed me.”

“Yeah.”

Rabun sat there a while longer and both of them looked away, not able to meet the other’s gaze. Finally, without a word, Rabun stood up and left the room.

Tony could not miss hearing the door lock behind him.

He waited, until he was certain Rabun would not hear him, and then Tony fell to his knees and mourned.

* * *

Years of experience, working hand in hand with spies and assassins, had given Tony more abilities than he’d had when he was a prisoner in Afghanistan. He could pick locks; he could subvert enemy robots, he could redirect the security cameras.

He even managed to find tools and get the damn collar off his neck, which was a relief.

What he couldn’t do, however, was actually leave.

Tony arrived on the surface (because of course Von Doom had thrown him in some basement level type dungeon) and stared, aghast, at what had once been an amazing, if primitive, city.

The city was abandoned; half of it burned to ash; smoke poured out of a few basements, the blaze still going hard underground.

The warehouse that Tony had been in was completely gone. In its place was a sphere filled with what looked like a thunderstorm on fire.

“What the hell?”

“A warm light for all mankind,” Doom said, stepping up next to him.

Tony didn’t allow himself to flinch and Doom didn’t… do anything. He just stood there, staring at the orb.

“What happened?” Because even at the worst possible moment, Tony couldn’t help that cat’s curiosity about him, that need to _know_ , followed up by the need to _fix_.

Doom stood stiffly, hands clasped behind his back. “The arc-reactor core is melting down, constantly recycling, as more and more heat builds up. It is self-sustaining. Each moment, the force of it grows exponentially. Yesterday, it would have wiped out most of the city and surrounding countryside. Today it will flatten Latveria all the way to its borders and somewhat beyond. By tomorrow, half of Eastern Europe. In a week’s time, it’ll crack the planet down to the core.”

“Holy hell,” Tony choked out.

“Indeed.” Doom might have glanced at Tony; it was hard to tell with the mask that hid Doom’s face from the world. His voice, like Tony’s when he was in the armor, was modulated, emotionless. “Surrounding nations have closed their borders. Doom’s people cannot evacuate to a safe distance.”

“How long can the shield hold?” Tony shuddered. The shield was magical, something Tony rather abhorred, but at the moment he was willing to overlook it in the face of not being liquified immediately. All that Rabun had spoken of, earlier, was a lie. Doom had never intended for Tony to live. Or perhaps Rabun had not known.

“Doom does not have enough data to be certain,” Doom said, “but Doom believes that the force will be too great to withstand within ten days. But Doom is planning to release it this day. The fate of Latveria is trivial, compared to the world. It will be remembered as a great disaster.” He tipped his head in Tony’s direction and said with a certain deadpan humor that Tony didn’t know Doom was capable of, “Perhaps they will even call it Doom’s Day, in the history books.”

Tony couldn’t help but choke out a laugh.

“You let me escape,” he said.

“Yes,” Doom said. “All of Doom’s citizens are as far from here as they can get, with orders to storm the borders, if they must. You will join them. Doom will have no more deaths.”

“And you?”

“Doom will remain here,” Doom said. “Perhaps Doom can shunt the force of the blast. If not, Doom will still not abandon his home.”

Tony stared at the orb, calculating furiously. “What day is it?”

Doom gave him the date and Tony added the moon’s current location to his calculations.

“You have a plan,” Doom observed.

“Yeah. As it happens, I’m not in favor of large holes in the planet,” Tony said. “Conditionally.”

“Name it.”

Tony waited until Doom turned and gave Tony his full attention. “I want Rabun Alil. Let him go. Whatever hold you have on him, whatever he means to you, whatever he does for you. I want him to be free.”

“Doom wishes he could do that,” Doom said, and even with the voice modulator, he sounded sincere. “It is not possible.”

“Why not? He’s one man,” Tony demanded. “We’re talking about your entire nation, millions of people in the surrounding countries. What is he to you that you can’t let him live his own life?”

Doom raised his hands to his mask. He touched two studs at the neck and lifted the iron faceplate free. He turned to face Tony, familiar silver hair spilling into his face, the amber eyes sad. “Because he’s me,” Rabun -- _no, Victor fucking Von Doom_ \-- said. “And if I ever meant anything to you at all, Tony, please… help me save my people.”


	5. Doom and Despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got flaws I can't disguise  
> And you tried to pull me to the light  
> I can't go back and make it right  
> And I wonder where you sleep tonight
> 
> Stuck behind the glass and the walls are closing in  
> Stuck inside a past that won't let me leave  
> But I'm in chains while you're breaking free
> 
> \--Flaws, Olly Murs

 Victor was forced to watch as Tony picked up the pieces of a shattered heart and threw them away as useless.

“Where’s my armor?”

Victor gestured and one of the Doombots ran up, carrying the case where Victor had carefully stowed the Iron Man armor as he removed it from Tony’s unconscious form. “I didn’t do anything to it,” Victor said, “but I do not know how much damage it sustained before I evacuated us.”

“Kidnapped,” Tony muttered under his breath and Victor decided to ignore it. He rather thought of those events as _rescued_ , but he knew that Tony didn’t want to, and couldn’t, see it that way.

“Well, I don’t have time to do repairs,” Tony said. “How much surface tension can that shield take?”

“What’s your plan?” Logistics. They could talk logistics and Victor could mostly ignore the tone of Tony’s voice, the cold, icy way he bit off syllables. Nothing like how Tony had ever sounded before. Even when they barely knew each other, Tony had been warm, playful, easy. This was… this was _horrible_ and even though there should be nothing more important than saving Latveria, Victor was forced to admit that he was already mourning.

“The arc-reactor is a non-nuclear device,” Tony said. “If I can get it high enough, we’ll make pretty colors in the sky and might melt a little more of the ozone layer than is really going to be healthy, but it won’t dissolve into nuclear fallout or toxic particulates.”

“You’re going to fly a bomb into space?”

“Assuming I can lift it, and you can hold it steady, then yes,” Tony snapped. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” Tony twisted his jaw, bracing himself. He looked up into the sky, anguish and fear and anger all over his face.

“Tony,” Victor said, reaching out.

Tony slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me,” he said, his voice dead. “I’m not doing this for you. You don’t get to… no.”

Victor nodded. He understood. Of course he did. “I’ll keep the shield reinforced as long as possible,” he said.

Tony yanked his armor out of the case and started pulling on the pieces, letting it assemble in fits and starts. Victor watched him the entire time; he wasn’t going to be allowed to look at Tony for much longer and was not willing to miss a single second of it.

Fully encased in his armor, Tony stood up, and as the gold/red mask turned toward him, Victor’s stomach clenched. That faceless, expressionless mask was the last thing he was going to see of the man he loved.

“All right,” Victor said. “Get under it; I’ll help keep it steady. Try not to fly too fast, I don’t know what wind resistance will do to the stability.”

“Kill me,” Iron Man said, voice shifted and modulated and utterly cold.

Victor allowed himself to close his eyes for a long blink, then nodded.

Iron Man made his way into the shattered remains of the warehouse. Victor wasn’t sure what the weight capacity of the Iron Man suit was in flight, but he twisted his fingers together in a complicated spell, mixing magic and physics. Force equals mass times acceleration. He couldn’t do much about the acceleration, but he could pull out as much of the mass as possible. There was so much of it, though, and he was sweating before Iron Man even got into the crouch under the containment field.

“Shit,” Iron Man muttered, voice still amplified. “It’s hot.”

Victor winced, added a second line in the ancient tongues, shifting the heat to bleed out from the top, as much as he could. The air shimmered around the bubble.

“That’s better,” Iron Man acknowledged.

“Go, go now,” Victor said in the pause between incantations, shaping and twisting the mystic energy, directing pockets of heat and weight to the sides; the weather was going to be fucked as shit for a while, and there were sections of the deep ocean that were suddenly boiling as he displaced heat to the places he could reach that would have the least environmental impact.

Iron Man lifted, pushing the shield, like Atlas under a solar core instead of the planet. He should not have been able to lift it; it was too big, the energy with threw off too much interference, and yet, he did. Doom held out a hand, steadied the burden. There was not enough left over to shield Iron Man from any energy leak, from the heat that was slowly building even as Doom dumped as much as he could.

They rose together, Doom pushing away from the planet’s surface with his magic. The repulsors whined as Iron Man struggled to move a load that should not have been liftable.

“How do you fare?” Doom asked, when they reached the airspace of passenger planes. Doom issued warn-aways, diverting the crafts from their path.

“Feeling a little like Sisyphus,” Iron Man barked. The heat was intense; energy bleed-through was cooking the air around them. Doom strained the spell, diverting the heat straight up, toward the stratosphere where it could vent with harm to no one, save perhaps some mobile communication satellites.

“You may wish to hurry it up,” Doom said. “The heat is --”

“Think I noticed the fucking heat, thanks,” Iron Man snapped. “You wanna help, help. Otherwise, shut up.”

“Doom is helping.”

“Doom is fucking _nagging_ me, that’s what Doom is doing.”

Behind his own mask, Doom did not need to conceal a smile; the banter was familiar, easy. It felt… almost natural.

“Would it help if Doom pushed?”

“Yes, actually,” Iron Man snapped. He was straining with it, voice showing the stress even through the modulator.

Doom flew under Iron Man, got a hand up --

“You needn’t grab my ass, sweetheart.”

“Oh, Doom must, he really, really must.”

They pushed, magic and tech together. The containment field wobbled, cracked. Doom could feel the energy inside, pushing at the barriers of his brain like wrath, like the embodiment of rage and fire. It was breaking.

“Faster!” Iron Man yelled.

“You’ll die!”

Very soft. “I’m okay with that consequence.”

Doom pushed harder, shoving up with all the strength he had, with everything. As the containment shield shattered, he tried to wrap the energy around himself, around Iron Man.

The sky exploded.

***

Tony dropped them to the ground, Doom cradled in his arms like a princess. Like Tony was never going to let him go.

The firestorm raged above them, flickers of orange and blue and green as the reaction spun itself out, painting pictures on the stratosphere. Doom didn’t move and Tony laid him on the ground in the burned out ruins of Doomstadt.

He should walk away. He should fucking walk _away_.

Tony wasn’t walking away. He let JARVIS peel the faceplate away, then ripped off Doom’s cowl and mask.

“Lifesigns faint, but positive, sir,” JARVIS said.

Tony wasn’t walking away.

“Wake up,” he said, barely louder than a whisper. _Please. Please wake up._

Doom opened those honey-amber eyes and stared at Tony as if he were the only thing in the world worth looking at. “How do we live, still?”

“Uh,” Tony said. He barely remembered the explosion. It knocked him back with the force of a nuclear blast. Only JARVIS’s autopilot kept him airborne as the acceleration blacked him out. When he recovered, seconds later, Doom was plummeting toward the ground, limp and lifeless. Tony didn’t think, he just dove, pushing the repulsors as fast as possible, aiming for that falling form. “You shielded us.”

“And you caught me,” Doom said. “Why?”

“It was a team effort,” Tony said. “Couldn’t let you die saving my life. It would look bad.”

“That’s not why.”

“No, it’s not.” Tony snarled. Betrayal chewed beneath his skin. Tony knew he was acting like a despoiled virgin in a bad historical romance; _I let you touch me and it was a lie._ He’d had plenty of sex that meant nothing more than to satisfy a physical craving; he may as well get upset if a cheeseburger betrayed him. It would make as much sense.

And yet.

“I understand,” Doom said. He worked himself into a sitting position, then slid down, coughing. Tony was there, before he could even think, before he could plan, he was, fuck, helping to prop Doom up, his hands concerned and gentle.

“I shouldn’t --” Tony said. _Shouldn’t love you, shouldn’t want you. Should not._

“Nor should I,” Doom said, and it was hard to think of him as Doom, cloak and mask or not. Victor didn’t speak like Doom, all royal third person, all arrogance, all conquistador. “But here we are.”

“Yeah.”

Tony stared, as if drinking in the last dregs of water, the desert looming long before him. The rest of his life spread out in front of him.

It’s not like he hadn’t had hate-sex before, violent and ugly. Ty’d thrown him against a wall more than one and fucked him into submission. End of the world, break up sex.

“You lied to me,” Tony accused. He moved closer, drawn to Victor like a magnet. “You lied, you let me believe --”

“I did,” Victor said. His face twisted with impossible pain and how dare he, how dare he act like the wounded party here? Victor had known the truth, had known it --

“You knew from the very beginning, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Victor said. “I knew who you were before we even spoke. I knew, Tony. I always knew.”

“Why?” The saddest word in the whole of the language, the voice of the betrayed. _Why did you do it? How could you? Did I mean nothing to you?_   

Victor wrapped a hand around the back of Tony’s neck, dragged him down. Tony let it happen. Victor’s lips found his, crashed them together in a tangle of tongues, a battle of lips, a war of wills and Tony surrendered. He didn’t want anything, he didn’t care about anything else. Let the world burn. “Because we have _this_. We have this, Tony, and I am weak. I didn’t want to… couldn’t… could not give it up.”

It was a kiss of anger, of fury, of loss. Victor’s arm held him down, implacable and undeniable. His mouth moved over Tony’s with stunning, melting gentleness. It was the kind of kiss you died for, the sort you couldn’t break if the world was burning down, the sort of kiss you sold your soul for. And that was the cost; a kiss, knowing that Victor Von Doom was kissing him, one of the most evil men in the world was seducing Tony with an expert touch.

Tony’s stomach clenched with need and he sucked in a breath, wrapped his arms around Victor, to pull them closer, impossibly close. He flicked his fingers, let the armor fold itself up and hit the ground as Victor’s magic spun around them. Tony’s hands plunged into that wealth of silver hair, painfully tight.

Victor whispered to him, words of love, of need, of want and desire, teased at Tony’s ear with hot breath and slick, wet mouth. Victor traced his mouth down Tony’s throat, feather-light, eager kisses that tantalized at the skin and drew sparks of desire from his nerves. He paid homage to the sensitive flesh at the collarbone, traced his tongue over the hollow at the base of Tony’s throat. Victor peeled the tee shirt off Tony’s body, hands warm and eager over his back and Tony rose to meet him.

The ground was soot and rough beneath them, and Tony’s fingers left chalky ash on Victor’s face, and Tony did not care, did not. He reveled in the body stripped above him, ached for Victor’s touch and kiss.

Tony’s breathing sped, gasping, moaning between breaths. Victor’s hands were everywhere on him. Tony wanted, wanted him more than he’d ever wanted anything.

“We have _this_.”

Tony kissed him, harsh, angry, teeth scraping, tongue battling for dominance, kissed him like a blow. “We _had_ this.” His fingers scored down Victor’s back. “Never again.”

“I love you,” Victor said, between kisses, between moans. “I love you and I will never want another. I breathe for you, I live for you. My heart beats. For you.”

Tony was _furious_. How dare.. how did he _even_ \-- “You should have thought of that before.” He couldn’t stop, couldn’t take his hands off Victor’s skin, hot and sweaty, filthy with ash and dirt. One last time, then.

There was nothing tender about their coupling. Tony bit and his fingernails sunk in. Victor’s hands were too tight, clamping down to the point of agony, and Tony only wanted him to hold tighter. _Never let me go._ He wanted the bruises to last, he wanted scars to look back and remember. He wanted, oh, god, he wanted.

Victor slid down his body, took Tony’s cock into that warm, slick clutch. There was no teasing, no tantalizing, no soft licks or gentle nuzzles. It was fast, it was furious, and Tony fucked up into Victor’s mouth with no concern; let him fucking choke on it. Tony’s hands were in Victor’s hair, rough and pushing, directing.

Fingers dug into Tony’s hips, pushing him down, holding him in place, torturing him with wet, slick, talented tongue, forcing him still. Forcing him to accept, to take it. Tony groaned, needy, aching. On the verge of begging, but he couldn’t. Could not. Would not.

Victor kept him pinned, drew back --

“Don’t you dare stop now. I will fucking _kill_ you!” Tony panted for breath.

Victor let lose a sensual attack, designed to melt Tony’s brain right out of his ears, swift licks and long, slow draws, taking Tony’s cock all the way to the back of his throat. Brought him up to the edge and toyed with him, nuzzling at Tony’s balls, teasing at the pucker of his entrance with a rough finger until Tony didn’t know what to do. He whined and shifted, gasped and groaned and straight up sobbed for release.

_Needed_ , so much…

Victor kept him there. Whenever Tony thought he might be able to relax, Victor would suck him down again, tonguing at the base of his cock, or swirled around the head. He flicked his tongue around the ridge, a soft torment.

“Say it,” Victor urged. “Say it and I will give you what you crave.”

“I hate you!” _I love you._

Victor licked him again and Tony wailed, aching with it, hips fighting Victor’s hold, hands rough, yanking at Victor’s hair as if to pull him away, but as soon as that velvet mouth came down on him again, Tony was lost.

“Say it.”

Tony fought, body arching, trying to get closer, desperate to dominate. He was fucking Victor’s throat raw, and still it felt like _losing_.

“Please…” Tony begged, he gave in, surrendered, and begged for it. Would have gotten on his knees and pleaded for it if Victor would have allowed it.

“You know it’s true.”

“It’s not. It can’t be.” Tony was sobbing.

“It is.”

Victor’s mouth wasn’t even on him. “I love you. I need… _please…_ ”

Victor was a drug, he was addictive and damning, he was perfection and he was death. Tony had never needed anything so much, never wanted anything that he couldn’t get. But Victor was beyond his reach, had put himself so far away that Tony would never be able to have this again. His hot, wet mouth was back on Tony’s cock and Tony was too weary to fight anymore, just gave himself over to the sweet anguish of sensation. Fierce licks that set his skin on fire, tiny kisses scattered across his thighs. Tony was lost.

Victor’s mouth moved, took him in to the hilt, and then Tony was crying out, undone.

No one would know what this man meant to him, no one could ever know. No one ever would. It was over, it would never be spoken of again, which did not stop Tony from acting like a total wanton.

He was barely recovered when he was shoving Victor over onto his back, hand clenched almost too tight on Victor’s length, stroking him with a quick stroke. Now that Tony was firmly situated on top of Victor, he could hurt the man, hurt him with kindness, torture him with bliss, seduce him into submission. Tony couldn’t remember the last time he was so desperate for someone else’s orgasm, wanted to feel Victor shaking underneath him, shattering apart.

Victor didn’t deserve it. He didn’t warrant the sweetness of release. He’d lied. He’d _lied_.

Victor moaned into Tony’s mouth; Tony could taste himself against Victor’s tongue and the taste drove him to madness. He would have it, he would have everything. He would take it and when he couldn’t take, he’d push, wring the man out until he was limp and sated.

Consequences be damned!

Tony took what he wanted, stroking the velvet length of Victor’s cock, teasing at the head with one thumb. His mouth descended to Victor’s again, quick and aggressive, demanding everything. “You give it to me.” Tony required this of him, this surrender, this agreement.

“Everything.”

His tongue forced its way into Victor’s mouth, rough, probing, lips plied at Victor’s with a grunt of effort. His hand was on Victor’s cock, the other pressing onto the man’s chest, holding him down, wringing pleasure from him. _You have no idea what you do to me._

Tony groaned, pushed his way into Victor’s mouth again and again, matched the slick and unrelenting rhythm of his hand until Victor was shuddering and twisting, writhing under Tony’s hand and mouth and coming apart.

Victor screamed against Tony’s mouth, shattering into a million pieces. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps as he spilled over Tony’s hand, hot, sticky come dripping off Tony’s fingers.

Tony shook his hand, splattering the excess off. “I hope it was good for you,” Tony said. He pulled himself to his feet and dressed with quick, efficient movements. “Because that’s the last time you’ll ever have it.”

Victor didn’t say anything.

There was nothing to say.

Tony left without looking back.

***

Two days later, Victor still had the memory of that crystalline, grief-shattered moment emblazoned on his memory.

His people returned and he did not care. Newsgroups, long barred entrance, came to report, and he could not respond. He turned them away, granted no interviews. His seneschal gave reports, the damage done, the money lost, the cost of rebuilding, the casualty reports.

Cameramen with telephoto lenses captured his image, maskless, and broadcast it to the world.

_Doom Unmasked_ the headlines screamed.

Victor barely noticed, his eyes firm-fixed on some impossible point in the past, a past he’d never be able to reclaim. He didn’t care.

It was ironic, really. He’d spent his whole life hiding, and now that he was forced into the spotlight, the only thing that mattered was the one face he’d never see again.

What little effort he could raise went to the people for whom he had sacrificed everything. The rebuilding would continue. His people would survive. He would build a monument of Latveria, an alleluia to his lost love.  

When he surfaced from grief, the worst weeks of his existence, Victor found things had changed. Latveria had the world’s sympathy. Sanctions were argued against the Fantastic Four, against Iron Man. Victor would have allowed it, perhaps, but he couldn’t argue that he didn’t deserve it. That his past defined his present. They’d been suspicious; they were owed for all the times they’d been right.

He issued a statement. The fire had been an accident. It was sort of true; Storm had not meant to cause a reactor meltdown. Even the Human Torch was not that stupid. Maybe that was too generous, but Victor’s grief would not be assuaged by vengeance.

The rest was truth; that Iron Man had helped him save his country, his subjects. The world.

_Von Doom Issues Public Support for Iron Man_

A month after that, Stark Industries shipped him a new arc-reactor.

Tony’s phone was turned off. Texts bounced. Victor knew this because when the reactor was delivered, he attempted a thank you.

Even his gratitude was tainted. Unacceptable.  

Two months after that, a small package arrived. Victor’s senechal brought it to him, bowed, and left the room. There was no return address, but the postmark was from New York city.

Victor opened the box with trembling fingers. He withdrew a keycard and a piece of rich, creamy paper.

_You know where I am._

 


	6. Stark Raving Mad

Drinking didn’t help.

Tony had known it wouldn’t, it never had. But sometimes in the bottom of the bottle, Tony had found a little forgetfulness, a little numbness.

Not this time; no amount of single-malt cut the pain. There was no fog or relief with an empty glass. There were some pretty epic hangovers, however. Sometimes he could disguise the anguish in his chest in a throbbing headache and muscle spasms. Dealing with a brain that wanted to shrink to the size of a walnut and hide under the bed was easier than thinking.

He started living for those few moments in between dreaming and waking, when he felt strong, warm arms around him. Heard a lightly accented voice in his ear, telling him everything was going to be all right.

And then he would slide his hand across the cool sheets, seeking a warm, familiar shape, pretending that his lover was just out of reach, instead of half the world away. Half the world and an impenetrable wall of lies and misunderstandings away.

At least night was only half the time.

Tony couldn’t decide if sleep was the enemy or his best solace. Sleeping eased the pain; in sleep he could forget, and even if his dreams were haunted, or he’d wake up hard and aching and reaching, he wasn’t in _agony_ while sleeping. On the other hand, during his waking hours, he got… used to it. The pain didn’t lessen, he didn’t _feel better,_ but he did grow accustomed to it. By the time he was awake for eighteen hours, he could better carry the load. Sleep… reset his tolerance.

Waking up was the worst. The constant hangover probably didn’t help, but he couldn’t give any of it up.

_I wish I could quit you._

He’d thought walking away was the hardest thing he’d ever done. It wasn’t. Staying away, now that was hard, and each day, each hour, it was a decision he had to make all over again, because it wouldn’t take that long, or even that much effort, to be in the suit, across the sea, and on his fucking _knees_ in front of Victor Von Doom, begging to be taken back.

_He’s the one who should apologize._

Didn’t matter, in the end. This was something Tony _could not have_.

“Your boyfriend’s in the papers again,” Clint said, one morning -- well, actually it was more like early evening, but fuck it, if it was Tony’s first goddamn cup of coffee, it was _morning_.

“What?” The coffee slopped over the edge of the mug, searing Tony’s fingers. He hissed, stuck his fingers in his mouth out of instinct and that was even more painful. Eventually he got himself together enough to run his hand under some cold water. “What are you even talking about, Barton?”

No one knew. _No one could ever know._

“Doom,” Clint said. He brandished the paper at Tony. “Didn’t he kidnap you recently?”

“Tony’s been kidnapped so many times, it kinda slips his mind,” Natasha pointed out.

“I’m not really susceptible to Stockholm Syndrome,” Tony managed, heart beating in his throat. Why was Victor in the papers. “If I was, there’d be a lot more Ten Rings fanatics in the world.”

“Well, thank God for that,” Steve said. He was buttering an English muffin and smearing more jam on it than any five people should have been able to eat.

Why was everyone else eating breakfast at… Tony checked the clock. _Oh_. It actually was six-thirty in the morning. He was getting his days and nights all backward, trying to stay awake as long as possible and then falling on his face from exhaustion, only to crawl out of bed unrested and weary. Had he ever been awake at this time of day on purpose before in his life? Probably, but he couldn’t remember why he’d want to do that.

“Why?”

“Why what?” Everyone had just continued on with their day as if nothing earth shattering was happening at all.

Tony counted prime numbers backward from ten thousand. “Why is Doom in the papers?”

“Oh, some pappas managed to get a pic of his face,” Clint said. “Can you believe it? I thought that guy was supposed to be all scared up and hideous.”

What? “What?” Tony snatched the paper up and spread it out on the table. “That can’t be real.”

_Doom Unmasked_

Actually a series of photographs; Doom’s hands at his throat, unhooking the mask. Sitting at a desk, face covered by his hands, as if weary. Or grieving. A final shot, a little blurry, but recognizable.

_Victor._

“I didn’t think a photographer would get close enough to Castle Doom to get a picture,” Steve said. “Doesn’t he shoot foreigners on sight? Him and those Doombots.”

“I think it’s a fake,” Sam said. “The real Doom would have strung up a photographer on the nearest spike and let his guts spill out.”

_He’s not like that_ , Tony wanted to protest. At least not _anymore_.

“That’s lovely breakfast conversation,” Tony snarked, his tone a little more hostile than he’d meant it to be. He folded up the paper and tucked it under his arm. “I’ll be in the shop. If anyone needs me… too fucking bad.”

***

“What was your involvement in the Latveria conflict, Mr. Stark?” Christine Everhart smiled at him, her teeth looking like a shark’s grin rather than anything like a human expression.

“I accompanied the Fantastic Four, on rumors of stolen Stark Industries weapons tech being obtained by the Latverian government,” Tony said. He had a whole handful of printed cards; but you’d think Pepper would stop handing him that kind of bullshit, because he was never going to deliver a speech based on what some PR buffoon wrote down. If she wanted the spin to go her way, she needed to give the goddamn speech herself and leave him out of it. It didn’t even matter that the reporters wanted Iron Man, it’s not like she hadn’t made excuses on his behalf before.

“But that’s not what you found?”

“I’m sure you already know the answer to that,” Stark said, giving her his best cheeky grin. He’d always been good at playing the press, smiling on the outside, but this was the first time his press smile actually physically hurt his face, plastering it on there.

“Our intelligence was somewhat lacking,” Tony said. “Indeed, Latveria had acquired Stark Industries tech, but it was for energy and not a weaponized system.”

“But isn’t the arc-reactor capable of immense destruction?”

“As we saw,” Tony said. “As a result of --”

“Von Doom’s issued a public statement,” another reporter, Ben Urich called out. Christine gave him a death glare, but it didn’t shut Urich up at all. Now that was an investigative reporter. “Were you aware, Mr. Stark, that he claimed both that the reactor meltdown was an accident and that you -- acting as Iron Man -- saved his country?”

“Well, I’d say that’s pretty much true,” Tony responded, a little stunned. The current emotions surrounding the event had been pretty hostile and Tony was expecting reparations to be demanded, at the very least. Not to mention the expectations that Johnny Storm might be accused of war crimes.

“Do you consider yourself to be working with Dr. Doom?” Christine butted in.

“In the case of saving the world, then yes, ma’am,” Tony said. He knew she _hated_ it when he called her ma’am. He made a point to do so as often as possible. “I’m pretty much willing to work with just about anyone for that goal.”

That seemed like a good line to walk out on, so Tony did.

***

“No,” Cap said. Tony could tell it was Cap and not Steve talking because Steve usually leaned in doorways when he was mad, contemplative, or just being a pain in Tony’s ass.

Cap, on the other hand, was all six-foot three-inches worth of patriotic self-righteousness, and someone had taught him, decades before Tony was born, that hands on the hips was a good leadership look. Cap had learned that lesson pretty well. It always made Tony sort of want to do the Macarena, but whatever.

“Well, I didn’t ask you to the spring dance or anything so --”

“Tony, just stop,” Steve said, and it was all Steve again, and really, the personality changes were going to give Tony whiplash if it kept happening. “You’re drunk, you’re erratic, and I’m not letting you go on this call.”

“You’re not the director of me,” Tony said. He wasn’t that drunk. Was he? Not like he hadn’t done the superhero schtick fucked up drunk on a couple of occasions. One of those occasions was how Rhodey ended up with War Machine. He thought that was planned, but maybe Rhodey did, actually, kick Tony’s ass. Tony couldn’t quite remember anymore, and that was weird because usually Tony’s memory was pretty damn good.

“Maybe not,” Steve said, “but I _am_ the leader of this team, and as such, I’m not going to let you endanger them, yourself, or civilians by operating a battle suit under the influence.”

“Don’t really see how you can stop me, Stars and Bars,” Tony snapped. “I was doing the superhero gig while you were still getting your beauty sleep.”

There was a sharp prick at the base of his neck. “Aaand I was in spy school before you built your first suit with tin cans and paper clips, Tony. I’m sorry, but Steve’s right.” Natasha said. “You’re a hazard right now.” The world got a little… bendy around the edges.

“I’m not so very… drunk… Melly,” Tony said.

Steve blinked a few times. “Hey, I understood that reference,” he said. He shook his head. “Sorry, Tony. Not this time. JARVIS, shut him down. I want a legal BAC before you let him fly anywhere.”

“I understand, Captain,” JARVIS said.

Well, that was interesting. Understanding was not the same as obeying. Tony waved a hand in front of his face, dismissing Captain Stick-up-his-ass.

The Quinjet was up and gone by the time Tony managed to stagger off the landing platform. JARVIS obeying Steve or not, Tony couldn’t fly in these conditions. What the fuck had Nat injected him with anyway, ketamine?

“Sir,” JARVIS said, “Much as it pains me to agree with the Captain under these circumstances…”

“Yeah, I gotcha, buddy,” Tony said. He stumbled and if JARVIS hadn’t been holding the suit in his control like a toddler, Tony would have gone straight onto his face and probably broken his nose while he was at it. “No superheroing while under the influence…”

“If you don’t mind a suggestion, sir,” JARVIS said, “you might find some peace of mind if you will allow me --”

The bendy edges of the world went… bendier. Was that even _possible_? He was going to kill Nat. Or at least, use a bleach-filled water pistol on all her clothes. “Sure, buddy,” Tony said. “Whatever… you… want.”

JARVIS closed the faceplate. “Just sleep, sir,” JARVIS said, sympathetic. That was nice. Tony could use some sympathy these days, since all he was getting from his team was sarcasm and resentment. “I’ll wake you when we arrive.”

“Sure….” Tony closed his eyes. JARVIS could fly. JARVIS was his co-pilot.

***

“Is there some particular reason you decided to camp me out halfway up a tree in… where the fuck are we?” Tony demanded. Waking up in bed with a hangover was bad enough, really. He needed to get right on programing JARVIS with pain receptors or something, because honestly, this was a little too much…

“There were patrols,” JARVIS explained. “And I did not wish to engage with Latverian forces at this time, sir.”

Latveria. “Latveria? JARVIS, why the fuck did --”

“Sir, while I do not claim to understand human sexual relationships, I cannot help but observe that you have been suffering through the fallout of the events here, not that terribly long ago.” JARVIS overrode him.

“It wasn’t that long ago,” Tony protested. “I think I’m allowed to grieve.”

“I don’t disagree, sir,” JARVIS said. “But perhaps some observation might give you some closure.”

“I don’t think stalking the evil dictator of a fascist nation is what they mean by closure,” Tony said.

“I don’t believe evil dictator of a fascist nation is what you mean by _Victor Von Doom_ ,” JARVIS responded.

“I did not program you to be a relationship counselor,” Tony noted. “Scrap heap. Teaching math to third graders.”

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS said. “I have long since yearned to help younger minds who are not quite so set in their ways.”

Ow.

“That was hurtful, buddy,” Tony said.

“In point of fact, sir, I do not intend for you to stalk your lover,” JARVIS said. “I merely thought you might wish to look at what’s become of the country that you saved.”

Oh. Well, that might be okay. He could see what Doom had done in the last few months, go back to hating him, and everything would be fine. The world and reality would return to what he knew and maybe he could get on with forgetting a few nights of passion. And, really, that’s all it was. In the grand scheme of things, the twenty-three days that they’d actually spent _together_ were tiny, less than 0.002% of Tony’s _entire life_. And even if one recalculated for the time they weren’t in the same bed, but, at least for Tony, Victor had been almost the entirety of his thoughts… he was still only talking about 0.06%. Hardly worth the heartache.

_Except that you love him._

Tony skimmed around the countryside, stopping from time to time to observe village life. All the cities and towns were named Doom-something. Doomburg, Doommanor, Doomsville. Doom’s ancestors were hardly the creative types. (He was ignoring Starkphones and the Starktower and… yeah, okay, so he wasn’t ignoring it, and maybe he didn’t have any room to judge.)

It… wasn’t what he’d expected.

The work that he’d seen laid out in the warehouse was continuing. Slower, perhaps. The loss of the arc-reactor for power had made other plans necessary. Huge swaths of forest were tagged for removal, to set up solar panel projects. All of the new buildings had hydro-power or solar panels set up. Clean, renewable energy.

Latveria had always had a generally lower jobless rate than other countries, but now, Tony was seeing more and more social improvements. Latveria was moving out of the wealthy middle ages and into the middle-class modern age.

It was… intriguing.

“Compile news reports of Von Doom’s activities, since the incident,” Tony said. “Summarize.”

“If you will accept my analysis, sir,” JARVIS said, “Von Doom has changed. I believe his renunciation of world conquering to be sincere. His most recent efforts, dating, I dare say, from his first encounter with you at the Van Dyne masquerade ball, have been to bettering the lives of his people.”

“Could it be a trick?” Tony wanted to believe that, but at the same time, what actually the hell? Victor changing, for what? For Tony Stark? Ridiculous. Tony was what absolutely no one would call a role model. In fact, his teammates would probably rupture something, laughing, if anyone suggested it.

“Years of associating with humans have left me with few illusions, sir,” JARVIS said. “Anything could be a trick, or a trap. But you might ask yourself, a trap for whom? And why? Von Doom is going through rather a lot of effort, and if you’ll forgive me for saying it, what wouldn’t result in much benefit to anyone, if it was an ambush.”

_What gain a man the world, only to lose his soul?_

Well, it would gain a man the world. But Victor seemed to have turned his back on the world… to regain a soul, perhaps. That wasn’t an unworthy goal.

“All right,” Tony said. “Let’s see what he does with a little help.”

“Sir?”

“Replace the arc-reactor,” Tony said. “Call it a gift, or a tax-deduction. Let’s see what he actually does with one, if he’s got it.”

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS said. “I’ll place the order at once.”

***

“You owe me,” Tony said. He planted one hand on the kitchen table. “And don’t try to wiggle out of it, either.”

“I --”

“You’ve stabbed me in the neck more than once now,” Tony pointed out, “and I have yet to repulsor you in the face, no matter how much I’d really like to.”

“What is it you want me to do?”

“Go to Latveria. Be a tourist or something. He’s allowing tourists, these days.”

“And while I’m there?”

“Get a feel for the land. See what the people think. Do an analysis on the government, the economy.”

“To bring it down?” Natasha asked, brightening.

“No. Just report it. And leave your bias at the door. I want to know what Doom’s really up to.”

“And what will you be doing for the next few months, while I put this together?”

“Drying out,” Tony admitted. “I need to check in to rehab, otherwise, I’d do it myself.”

Natasha softened at that. She actually put her hand out and touched his wrist. “Are you going to tell anyone what happened?”

“Yes,” Tony said. “Just not you. Tony Stark, not recommended. Remember?”

Natasha winced. “Would it help if I said I’m sorry?”

“I honestly don’t know what I’d do with that, Ginger Snaps,” Tony said. “No one ever says they’re sorry to me.”

***

Natasha’s report was thorough. Favorable. If it was a trap, Doom as doing an awful lot of upgrades to his country in a non-military fashion. If it was a trap… the world might benefit from such a leader.

Tony thought about getting a hotel.

Going back to where they started, maybe. He had fond memories of that hotel.

But no, if they were going to move forward, it was time to actually move forward. Start new, fresh. No more lies. No more hiding.

“Send the package, J,” Tony said.

***

There were, Tony thought, several possibilities.

Dozens of scenarios and reasons. But it boiled down to a Schrodinger’s cat scenario. Either Victor would come.

Or he wouldn’t.

Either there was love. Or there wasn’t.

Tony didn’t bother to dress up; he wasn’t going to wait around like some modern day Miss Havisham. Comfortable pants and a tee were good enough for the Avengers; a sport coat sometimes if he was leaving the building. His sneakers. And if he had engine grease on his face, so be it. Tinkering in the workshop passed the time.

He wasn’t going to be anyone else anymore. No more masks. No more lies.

Okay, so he was totally waiting around.

Shut up, okay?

“Sir,” JARVIS interrupted his thoughts. “Victor Von Doom is inboard to the Tower. Two minute warning.”

Tony’s heart rate increased and he had to swallow a sudden bout of nerves. “Where’s he landing?”

“Current trajectory indicates penthouse landing platform, sir,” JARVIS said.

“Let him in.” Tony didn’t have to move. He could just stay right there he was, on the sofa, drinking his sparkling water and pretending that he wasn’t a recovering alcoholic. Pretending to be casual. Pretending the outcome of this meeting wasn’t going to change his life, perhaps even more drastically than Afghanistan had.

Von Doom came down on the platform in a superhero™ landing. Good thing the floor there was reinforced to take the full weight of the Hulkbuster, otherwise he might have cracked the pavement. Green cloak billowed out behind him, dramatic.

Von Doom raised one hand and touched the stud under his jaw, removed his mask. With a negligent flick of the wrist, he threw it aside where it clattered up against the rails. Pushed back his hood.

He was so beautiful.

Tony had meant to stay where he was. Calm. Cool. Collected. Fuck it. The glass of water spilled, unheeded, to the floor. He was on his feet and practically running to the door. He managed to get himself under control when his hand was on the knob, but still, he threw the door open.

“I see you found the address,” Tony said, letting a sly smirk touch his mouth.

“Tony, I --”

“Victor,” Tony said, and the sound of Victor’s name on his tongue stilled both of them for a long, long moment. They stared at each other. Drank in the sight. God, this was… _I love him. And I am never going to love anyone else again._ “We… need to talk.”

Victor nodded, slow. He reached out a hand, peeled off his armored gauntlet and offered Tony his hand. “We should,” he said. “Thank you, for inviting me.”

Tony touched Victor’s hand and the warm reality of it nearly drove him to his knees. _Iron. Stark men are iron._ If the talk went well, there would be plenty of time for him to be on his knees later. If it went poorly… well, he would like to skip the embarrassment of remembering how badly he wanted this. “You’re welcome.”

And he meant more than simple acknowledgement of thanks, he meant… you are welcome. In my home. In my life. In my heart. “Please. Come inside.”


	7. Victory March

Victor Von Doom stepped into Tony Stark’s penthouse with no small amount of trepidation.

He’d never been here before. A person’s living space was said to tell a lot about the person who lived there. There had been a reason, a good reason, that Tony had, likewise, never seen Victor’s home. They had conducted their entire relationship in anonymous hotel rooms, under Victor’s false pretenses. The only thing they’d shared with each other had been emotions and bodies.

And somehow, that had been enough.

Or, at least, Victor hoped it had been enough. That they’d started a foundation they could build on. Well, given the situation, maybe they’d started in the sub-basement.

Tony had invited him, that was a good sign. Had touched Victor’s hand and welcomed him in. That was a better sign. Still. The air between them was fraught with tension. It was not impossible, perhaps even now, that Tony Stark would want to kill him. Victor thought he probably deserved it, which didn’t make facing his imminent death any easier. But he knew he would raise no hand against Tony. Not anymore. Not ever again.

The only thing he could hope was that, if Tony decided that his death was the only payment he could accept, that Tony would make it quick. Victor was still human, at his core, and all humans feared death in the end.

Victor touched the runes at the base of his armor, sending it into that hollow pocket void that he carried around with him. The pocket of folded space-time was one of the best places to store things until they were needed. Fortunately, he could also summon his things from the void with a snap and a thought of the rune imprinted on the item. Otherwise, he could quite possibly spend decades cleaning out his closet. So to speak.

Most of the time, Victor wore a western European style men’s suit underneath his armor. Sometimes, he wore only a slim undersuit, to keep the armor from chafing. He’d even worn jeans and a tee on a few occasion in which he wanted to walk around cities in America and not be noticed. (But never in France. A man in jeans in France would stand out like a sore thumb.)

Today, he’d chosen to wear the native costume of his people. Simple, undyed wool trousers, tucked into highly polished leather boots. A long shirt overtop, the same simple undyed wool, but embroidered brightly at the collar and cuffs, cinched with a wide cloth belt, double-buckled. The belt was also colorful and hand stitched with elaborate patterns in Victor’s traditional colors, green and silver, with a hint of blue and yellow to add emphasis. A vest of green, lined with silver completed the look. A non-Latverian would not even have known that Victor was their king; the ring on his right hand was the only indication of rank. His clothes were fine, indicating wealth, and highly decorated, indicating prestige, but he could have been anyone if it weren’t for the ring.

“That’s a good look for you,” Tony said. He sat down on one of the sofas, tucking his feet up under him. He was barefoot and Victor might have thought it nothing more than the casual comfort of home, except there was something both erotic and vulnerable about Tony’s bare soles and the way his legs were tucked up, his toes peeking out.

“Thank you,” Victor said.

He considered the layout of the room, despite the fact that Tony had not yet invited him to sit. There were choices, and Victor did not think Tony so simple as to be unaware. There was just enough space on the sofa, given how Tony was sitting, for both of them. It would indicate closeness, a desire to resolve the situation in a collaborative partnership. Save that Tony’s body language was entirely closed off. He was holding himself, his arms practically wrapped across his own chest as if for protection.

There was a chair, narrow and uncomfortable, but made from rich fabric, sat at an angle to Tony’s sofa, close enough that Victor could touch him, if he chose to do so. But the chair was also regal, almost too regal. Throne-like, even. Sitting in it would declare that Victor thought he was better than Tony. And that he was never planning on opening his life or his heart to the other man in the room. Despite having said -- and that more than once -- that Victor would never love anyone else, he was also quite certain that Tony didn’t believe it.

The second sofa faced Tony’s, with the no-man’s land of the coffee table between them. Equals. Able to share rational discourse. Perhaps come to some terms. And yet, they would not be able to touch without someone choosing to cross the line. Someone would have to surrender. Someone would have to lose. Give ground. And Tony could not. He likewise believed that Victor _would_ not.

“May I sit?” Victor asked, finally.

“Help yourself,” Tony said, with a careless wave of his hand.

Tony’s arrangement had set Victor up to fail, so he did the only thing he could do to restore balance to the situation. To make it clear that Victor came with reconciliation as the goal, with humility, and with affection.

Victor folded his legs up and sat on the floor, in front of Tony, back against the couch, twisted at just the right angle to look up, and to have Tony’s hand in reach. “Thank you,” he said again, softly. “This should do nicely.”

Tony’s mouth spread into one of his brilliant, mega-watt smiles, just long enough to light up the room. Victor actually blinked in its luminosity, felt deprived of the sun when Tony tucked it away again. His hand twitched, fingers stretching, as if he wanted nothing more than to card his hand through Victor’s hair, feel the silvering strands.

“You continue to surprise me,” Tony admitted.

“I am inherently chaotic,” Victor pointed out. “What’s more, it is a trait you admire. Predictability is boring.”

“The stars are born and they die predictably, Victor,” Tony said. “It’s all math.”

“And here I sit, and there you are, surprised.”

“I’ll give you that one,” Tony said. “Human emotion has endless variables. It’s impossible to quantify.”

Some things were, Victor thought. Some emotions were engraved on the very foundation of a man’s soul, immutable. Unchangeable.

They sat in silence for some time, each waiting for the other to take an opening. To take a risk. To lose everything.

“What --” Victor started, paused, then continued. At least he would know. “For what purpose was I invited?”

“Well, I can’t help but say I’d love to skip the chat and go right on to the make-up sex,” Tony said, his voice achingly casual. “But I think we both know that would be a bad idea. Like, doing cocaine amounts of bad idea. Set us up for it. Make-up sex is always the best sex. But if it’s a reward for arguing, a reward for terrible behavior, it sets up a feedback loop. The beginning of a death spiral. And for us, for the men that we are… well, let’s just say us having a knock-down drag out fight could probably level several city blocks, and I have enough blood on my hands and guilt in my heart. I’d rather avoid adding to the load, no matter how good the sex is.”

It was a challenge, not to laugh at that. Tony was a master of absurdity, but within his jokes and fronting, there was a very serious message, one that he wanted Victor to hear.

“I concur,” he said. “Our battles have had many ill consequences; not only for ourselves. It would be for the betterment of everyone, should we learn to disagree more productively.” He paused, then took a risk. “I don’t want to hurt you again, Tony.”

“And you? Were you hurt?”

“Did you say anything that I didn’t deserve?”

“Which has precisely nothing to do with whether or not I hurt you,” Tony pointed out. There was a certain eagerness about Tony’s expression; Victor being hurt was a validation for him.

“Are we being honest, here, or practical?”

There was another long silence, while Tony weighed and measured everything. He was so determined not to lose, Victor knew. He’d been hurt, badly. There was a hole in Victor’s chest knowing that he’d caused it. But he couldn’t help Tony now. Only Tony could decide how much more risk he was willing to take, how much ground he was willing to give. “Honest,” Tony said.

“Of course,” Victor said. He wanted, _god_ , he wanted to put a hand on Tony, just to feel the heat of him, the living presence of him. He didn’t dare. “It was not realistic to believe you would accept my betrayal in any other manner than you did.” Well, perhaps not the hate-sex, that had been unexpected, and probably detrimental to both of them, but Victor would not have changed a single moment of it, branded as it was on his very skin. “Does not mean I would not have preferred it otherwise. Does not mean I did not wish you to see those things I did in the light they were meant.”

“You lied to me,” Tony said.

“Yes.” Victor chewed the inside of his cheek. “You… you would not have given me a chance, otherwise.”

“Probably not,” Tony agreed. “I’ve been known to make mistakes before, but out and out falling in love with a villain? That wasn’t one I--” He stopped talking as if he’d just realized what he’d said.

“And yet, you did,” Victor said. He struggled to keep his voice steady.

Tony opened his mouth to protest, to say something, then sighed and nodded. “Yeah, I did.”

Victor closed his eyes against the tide of emotion swelling in him, then decided to give Tony the only gift he had left. “You know, you didn’t,” he said.

“Didn’t what?”

“Fall in love with a villain,” Victor said. “I… do you know what I was doing, at the Van Dyne ball? I had a detonator in my pocket; there were dozens of you there, Avengers and Fantastic Four. It astonished me at the time, how much you all take comfort in being near each other. You group together, for mutual defense, but also for support. It’s dangerous. You could all have been killed in a single, triumphant moment. I had my finger on the button. Do you know what happened?”

“I asked you to dance,” Tony said.

“You did. And I chose not to carry through with my plans. One moment at a time, one decision at a time.”

The look Tony gave him was dry as the desert and as unimpressed as stone. “You’re saying you, what? Reformed because of a dance and a blow job in the broom closet. Tell me another one.”

“If you insist,” Victor said. “It wasn’t love. Not then. It was… curiosity. You were extraordinary. A marvel the likes of which I had never known before. I wanted to know more. And I wanted to experience that novelty again. So, I pursued you, once I set on a plan of how to do so. I don’t know that I even thought about end-game. What would happen if… I was too deep in it by the time I realized the footing we were on, and how easily it would all go wrong.”

Tony nodded, slow. Like he understood being in the middle of the swamp, seeing all the alligators. The solution was to drain the swamp, but first you had to deal with the alligators. Self-defeating problem.

“My plan, such as I had one, was to let Dr. Doom, would-be conqueror, die. No one except you had ever seen my face. I would let Doom pass, take a new name. Have a new life. But first, I had to take care of my people. I owed them much amends, for decades of neglect, abuse. As it happened, I did not have enough time.”

“Does anyone ever have enough time?” Tony wondered. He didn’t seem to notice, but he’d moved his hand closer to Victor’s, until their fingers were not _quite_ touching.

“Not for the things that are the most important,” Victor said. “But if I had the time to spend again, I would change nothing. Every moment with you, Tony, was better. I was _better_. I am better, for having known you.”

“You lied to me,” Tony repeated. “Why should I believe you now?”

Victor took a deep breath; this was the moment, in all the moments. His only chance, perhaps, for a second chance. “Only you can decide the manner in which you chose to be happy, chose to guard your heart, chose to give your love. My remorse and my regret are nothing, compared to the pain I have put you through. I wished only for the best. I was not prepared for the worst. I am, truly, sorry.”

Tony let his fingers touch Victor’s. Tony’s hands were warm, his fingers strong and callused. “God, I hate you,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re going to ruin me. I am wrecked, because of you.”

Victor shifted his position, came up onto his knees and cupped Tony’s face. “And I am saved. Because of you.”

The air between them was scorching.

“If you’re lying to me again--”

“I’m not.”

“Kill me quickly,” Tony said. “I don’t even want to know about it. I don’t want any more of this regret. This… whatever it is between us, when you’re not here. I don’t want it.”

“Nor do I.” His mouth was less than a breath away from Tony’s, close enough to kiss. Tony’s whole body tensed, unbearable. Would he move, even that much, surrender that little, to what was between them?

And then Tony’s mouth was on his, kissing him, hand going up to tangle in Victor’s hair, pulling, sending thrills down his spine. “God, I’ve missed you,” Tony said, between kisses, the words breathless, tugged from his mouth. Victor pushed his advantage, shoving Tony back against the sofa cushions, covering Tony’s body like a blanket, practically crawling into his lap.

Every inch of Tony’s body was Victor’s to claim. The muscles in his legs were hard, trim, like an athlete, and Victor stroked Tony’s thighs with eager, possessive hands. His mouth was firm, demanding against Tony’s, taking everything he could get before Tony came to his senses and push him away. Tony’s heat thawed him, comforting and arousing. The taste of Tony’s lips were a balm to Victor’s aching heart.

Tony moved against him, restless, hands eager on Victor’s shoulders, down his sides to rest at Victor’s hips. They rocked together, craving the friction, the heat between them.

Victor moaned, deep in his throat, clinging to Tony with all his strength, pressing his body against Tony’s, his mouth against Tony’s lips, seeking, finding. His thighs trembled with his need, his breath raged in and out of his lungs. His mind a delicious silence, stilled and calm for once. No regrets, no remorse, no aching loneliness, no ravaging despair. There was only Tony, and what Victor could do for him. Could do with him.

Could do _to_ him.

***

 

Tony kissed back, slow, savouring, a spiraling need that he could tell that Victor shared. Tony kissed his mouth, down his jaw, along the line of Victor’s throat until Victor was arching backward to give Tony room to work his wiles. His amber eyes fluttered shut, the eyelashes thick and dark, a contrast to his silver hair. He was so beautiful, skin a rich tawny shade, muscles clean and sharply outlined.

Tony wasn’t even sure how their clothes came off, he was too eager to remember a button, or a snap, the feel of Victor’s silken skin under his hands was too much like ambrosia for such petty details. For all he knew, their clothing could have combusted spontaneously in the heat between them and burned to ash without his notice.

Tony’s mouth closed over Victor’s nipple, licking it to firmness. He shivered, pressed against Tony. Made some noise, some small sound, hungry. He was hard, eager, wanting _Tony_.

A wicked, low growl came out of Tony’s throat, exultation, triumph, satisfaction. He took all the hunger, the desire, the need that Victor gave him and added it to his collection. He took it, took everything offered and went chasing after anything he thought might remain behind. If they were going to do this, if they were going to try again, try love, try _relationship_ , then there was going to be nothing hidden between them at all.

Everything that Victor was belonged to Tony, and each surrender sealed it. Victor had no resistance, gave everything with a generosity of spirit that would have had Tony weeping if he wasn’t so eager for whimpers and screams and moans. Tony kissed Victor as if Victor meant the world to him. And he knew that it was true.

Victor was clinging to Tony, kneeling in the cradle of Tony’s legs. “You’re so damn gorgeous,” Tony said, between kisses. He thumbed Victor’s nipples, rubbing the little nubs to hard peaks. Victor shuddered, his hands clenching on Tony’s thighs, throwing his head back. Tony’s world had shrunk to this one, perfect moment. He stroked and caressed and teased until he couldn’t wait any longer.

“Come on,” he urged. “Bedroom.”

Victor nodded easily and twisted to his feet with grace, the sheer power of the man enough to send a shiver of wanting down Tony’s spine. It wasn’t a race; Tony twined their fingers together as he walked Victor backward into the room, kissing him the whole while, and Victor let him, trusting Tony to steer him right, not wanting to give up any second where his lips could be on Tony.

When Tony pushed Victor down onto the bed, he sprawled there for a moment, like an offering and Tony made a small, helpless sound in his throat. Victor rolled his spine, rocked up, demanding that Tony take him, touch him, lick and suck and tease and touch.

Tony was happy to oblige. He crawled onto Victor’s lean, hard body, relishing the heat of the man, the sweet taste of his skin. Victor’s legs came up around Tony’s hips, pressing them together. The friction, god, so delicious. Tony ground down, shameless, brazen. Tony reached between them, curled his hand around Victor’s cock, heavy and hot against his palm. Urged him to rub up, stroke himself against Tony’s hand, watching Victor’s face as sensation overwhelmed him.

Victor’s hands were feverish, roaming over Tony’s body, ending with his fingers splayed over Tony’s buttocks, urging him to thrust, to rut, until they were rubbing at each other like frantic teenagers. Each shudder that rippled out of Victor’s body was echoed in Tony’s nerves until he was aching.

“Yes, Tony, yes,” Victor urged him.

There would be time, time and more time. They were together now, whatever that would mean. _Together._ Tony had time. He could reach his pleasure now and there wouldn’t be a quick kiss and a hasty goodbye, to see Victor again in a month or a week, without knowing.

_Together._

He moved over Victor, and their hands met in the space between them, cocks slick with precome. Victor pressed them together, wet, velvet, heated skin against Tony’s. Oh, god. His fingers moved, drumming a pattern as he stroked them together, vibrations tingling up Tony’s spine until he was moaning continuously. Victor pulled his head down, kissed the sounds away. They were breathing in sync, moving together. Moving as one.

Tony’s breath fled as Victor moved, rocking his whole body with each roll of his hips. Without conscious thought, Tony’s hands went under Victor’s ass, lifting him up, bringing them closer. Victor flipped them over, his powerful body carrying Tony with him until Tony was underneath, safe and secure and surrendering everything to the feelings within him.

“Now, now, Tony,” Victor said, pleading with him, begging him.

The wave of sensation that juddered through him was bigger than he’d ever thought it even could be, not a mere shiver and a burst of pleasure, but exquisite and tender and hot and needful all at once. Awareness faded, tension built, pleasure crashed over him, until his blood was boiling and his eyes were blind and his heart was thundering in his ears. They were together… they were…

“Look at me,” Victor implored. “Let me see you, love.”

With an effort, Tony opened his eyes, focused on Victor’s amber gaze, his eyes like lanterns in the fog, brilliant and soft and loving. He made one last thrust against Victor and shattered into oblivion. And oblivion was pure, radiant silver.

Minutes, hours, days passed before Tony brought himself back to some sort of awareness. Victor was cradled in his arms, cheek tucked against Tony’s chest, fingers resting against the arc-reactor.

“I love you,” Tony whispered into the silver of Victor’s hair.

“And I, you, Tony,” Victor said.

***

 

Tony was grabbing a quick cup of coffee before heading down to his workshop when his entire life went the rest of the way off the rails.

“What’s this about?” Steve demanded, shoving one of those cheap grocery store periodicals under Tony’s nose.

“Stark betrayal” the headline screamed.

Tony drank his coffee in a few, painfully hot swallows. He had a feeling he was going to need it.

_Tony Stark caught late last night in incriminating (and possibly criminal) position, involved in a torrid affair with none other than Latverian dictator, Victor Von Doom. These photographs clearly illustrate the close nature of their relationship, which brings up the question, is Tony Stark really a hero, or is he still maintaining his position as the Merchant of Death. Rumors have abounded between the two men since the situation exploded in Latveria six months ago. Special reporter_

_(cont on page 12)_

“Fuck,” Tony said. Well. _This is going to be awkward._ He looked up at Steve, mouth twitching into his customary smirk. “Guess you know who I’ve been doing, now.”

 

* * *

 

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	8. Voice of Doom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tony exits stage left to no fanfare, and Victor teaches him a little about magic...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter picks up EXACTLY where chapter seven left off

“You admit this?” That wasn’t even Steve, that was Nat.

For a brief, glorious moment, Tony thought he’d actually shocked Captain Self-righteous into shutting up.

“The evidence seems fairly compelling to me,” Tony said. “And I’ve never claimed to be a hero; that was something fantastical and kinda cool in the beginning label that I got stuck with. I know who I am. Hero’s not one of the words. So… theoretically speaking, I can’t really _stop_ being something I never was.”

Clint crossed his arms over his chest and scoffed. “You’ve been soakin’ up the hero gig since the beginning, Stark. Tell it to someone who wasn’t an assassin.”

Tony didn’t even bother to grace that with a reply. As the Merchant of Death, he’d been responsible for so many more deaths than Legolas could have hoped, even with an army of Gimlis to compete with.

“It doesn’t matter what you call yourself,” Steve said, tapping the page. “This is unacceptable. You’re compromised, Stark.”

“You’re probably right.” Tony took another sip of his coffee.

“All right, then,” Steve said, blinking in surprise. He wasn’t used to Tony agreeing with him. Or even being less than wordy about his agreement. “So, what are we doing about it?”

Tony very placidly drank the last bit of his coffee. Placed the cup on the counter, just so. Blinked. “I don’t know what _you’re_ doing, Captain. I don’t think I’m part of _we_ anymore.” He made a general hand-circling motion, indicating the Avengers. He wasn’t sure he’d ever, really been a part of we, but he’d pretended for a while, and sometimes the rest of them had gone along with it. “As a decent landlord, I’ll have your termination of lease written up, sixty days. That should give you time to find new digs, or negotiate with SI for continued rental of the building. I’m sure the UN will come through with funding for you anytime now.”

“You’re kicking us out?” That was Bruce and Tony felt a pang at that; Bruce had never done anything to him, aside from vanish just when Tony needed the support, and truly, Tony didn’t blame him for that. (Mostly.)

“Well, some of you may have an easier time negotiating use of space than others,” Tony said. He’d make a note in the file.

“You can stop being pedantic any time now, Stark,” Steve said. “What do you plan to do about Von Doom being in the Tower. I assume you _invited_ him here.”

Tony nodded. “I did,” he agreed. “We needed to talk, and this was a convenient neutral ground. Although perhaps less neutral than I’d expected at the time. I was, mistakenly, it seems, under the impression that I could have whatever guests I wanted in my home.”

“I didn’t know villains counted as _guests_.”

“This is pointless,” Victor said. He appeared out of nothing. There was no flash or portal or dramatics. One moment he wasn’t there and the next second it was like he had been there since the beginning of the conversation. For all Tony knew, he had been. Invisibility was probably one of the first things a person learned in Magic 101, World Conquering for Beginners. Just because Victor was no longer pursuing a job that utilized his degree, it didn’t mean he couldn’t use the skills he’d developed.

Tony jerked, ready to defend, to protest, to--

What the actual fuck?

Steve was standing, mouth still open like he was arguing. Unmoving.

“The hell?”

“We are between the moments, love,” Victor said. “Time here… is infinite. Were it possible to age here, you could grow old, die, and be dust all before the good captain here could draw another breath.

“Is this how you’re so fast, when you fight?”

“No,” Victor said. “As pretty as it might seem, this ability takes too long to use. And, for most things, it is useless. We cannot interact with anything in the momentary stillness. No door will open, no glass will break. You cannot harm anyone. All it can be used for is time to think, and to move yourself.”

He waved a hand. “They have not seen me. When I break the spell, you will simply vanish in front of Captain Rogers.”

“How’d you know we were arguing?”

Victor chuckled. “I am a very smart man, my love. I did not _know_. I merely surmised. I came down here, between the moments, that I might not attract attention and saw the way they were all turned on you.”

He drew Tony aside, showing what the scene looked like from the outside; every single one of the Avengers was firm-focused on the spot where Tony had been, expressions everything from mildly concerned (Bruce) to furious (Clint.)

None of them looked like his friend, anymore.

“Huh,” Tony said. He poked at Steve, curiously. The man’s skin was like marble; hard, cold, unyielding.

“They seem a school of sharks that have scented your blood,” Victor said.

Not entirely an inaccurate, although possibly unfair, assessment. “Well, can you blame them? I’m consorting with the enemy.”

“No,” Victor said. “You are _becoming_ the enemy.”

“Iron Man, yes,” Tony murmured. “Tony Stark… not recommended.”

“They are not fools, and I do not blame _them_ ,” Victor said, and instantly Tony wanted to put his arms around his lover, because he knew exactly what self-loathing looked like. He saw it most days… in the mirror.

Tony waved a hand around at the group. “So few of them have clean hands. You’d think they’d be more understanding.”

“I have only stated my intentions,” Victor said. “I have much to atone for, and many suspicions to allay before they will begin to trust. And even then, I may never make much headway.”

_None of us have._

Steve with his sneer, his conviction that Tony was trying to pull a fast one. Nat, who even now, he couldn’t trust. She might have his back today, but as soon as the wind shifted, her ultimate goal, her loyalty, that was something he hadn’t earned. Clint’s rage… well, he’d probably never burn that down.

Tony sighed.

“Plan B?”

“Plan B.”

Victor took his hand, and Tony followed him out of the room. By the time Steve realized he wasn’t there anymore, they’d be gone.

There was no Avenger badge for Tony to leave on a desk somewhere. No one who would want a snippily worded resignation letter.

Tony Stark. Exit, stage left, without fanfare.

***

“You know that magic works, my love. You’ve seen mine, from all sides,” Victor said. “Do you not trust the evidence of your senses?”

Tony scoffed. He was perched on a stool in the alchemy lab, his toes resting on the metal bar as if the very floor itself offended him. “Your senses can deceive you, do not trust them.”

Victor raised an eyebrow. “Do you not see the irony in using _Star Wars_ quotes to explain to me why you can’t believe in _magic_?”

“Magic is just a fancy word for technology that we can’t explain,” Tony said.

“Well,” Victor said, agreeably enough, “that’s quite possible. Magic does have rules, and they’re both very exacting and have particularly dire consequences if you fuck around with them too much.”

“Science does that, too,” Tony said. “I mean, the first people to mess around with x rays found out the hard way, there’s just some stuff you shouldn’t fuck with. Close up, without proper protection.”

Victor nodded. “Well, consider that Newton wasn’t the first scientist, but one of the last magicians. Jumping off from his studies is the base of modern magic. The interesting bit, however, is that magic is so very old, there’s always more to learn. From our own shamans all the way back when we were beating on drums made from wooly mammoth hide and praying to the gods in the storm, all the way to the pinnacle of magical achievement. Strange, myself, a few others…”

“More others,” Tony muttered. Whatever respect -- or lack thereof -- that Tony might have for magic, he was at least mostly restraining himself. He wasn’t picking stuff up randomly and shaking it. (Although Victor had done a thorough inspection to make sure that Tony couldn’t atomize himself in mere milliseconds by poking at something that might take it unkindly before Tony was even allowed in the alchemy lab. There was extending courtesy to his lover, and there was reckless foolishness.)

Not that there weren’t still a half-hundred ways to die, just in arm’s reach, but at least the things that remained Victor could fix, or he could warn, or… well, it was Tony, and if anyone was going to accidentally figure out that the _painajainen_ could be called up by mixing horsehair with the dust of dreams, it would be Tony. (Tony was a good source for that dust, a thing that Victor hadn’t yet told him, but would. Very soon. Once he’d topped off his stores.)

And what Victor would do about a nightmare demon on the loose… well, he had some defenses against it, and given time, he could catch it and banish it again. In the meanwhile, the damn thing would sit on Tony’s chest every time he went to sleep, and Tony had more than enough trouble with sleeplessness without demonic interference. But Tony was being cautious, which meant despite his tone, there were parts of him that _believed_.

“So, what is it you do, down here, when you’re not trying to convince me that hocus-pocus exists?”

“We can call it pataphysics, if it makes you more comfortable. The science of impossible solutions,” Victor said. “And what I do down here, mostly, is _prepare_ magic. Think of magic as a cookie; I have to mix all the ingredients together before I can have a cookie. There are certain incantations that have only verbal or mental components, but even those require study, strength. A certain mental fortitude. Casting out of nothingness is not possible. Even with magic, you cannot make matter without energy.”

“What happens?”

“Well, if you’re very lucky, mostly nothing happens. You can stand around and yell at a circuit board all day if you like, and end up with nothing but a sore throat, if you don’t have any power, nothing will happen to the _circuit board_. On the other hand, magic is a little more… molecular than that. Should I, for instance, attempt to lift you from that stool and make you stand inside the casting runes without practice, without proper preparation, I might strain the muscles in my back. I might lose ten pounds in a few seconds, as my body cannibalizes itself for the strength. I may get caught in a feedback loop and unmake myself.” Victor considered that line of thought for a moment, running through all the possible consequences, just from a little bit of unplanned alterological manipulations. “I suppose that’s why there are so few magicians. I would suspect many amateurs of causing their own demise, before they’re able to do damage to another person and thus be made note of.”

“For someone who talks so fancy, and who uses _magic_ to rearrange the world to his liking,” Tony said, “your grammar is shit, Vic.”

Victor laughed. No one ever called him Vic before. He wasn’t entirely sure he liked it, and glancing at Tony sidelong, he was pretty sure Tony was pushing his boundaries, trying to see where the line was at acceptable behavior.

“Criticizing my grammar?” Victor asked. He flipped a few pages through the grimoire -- one of his underlings had discovered it, hidden deep inside a castle in northern Ireland -- to see if there was aught inside worth preserving. “Are we sparring on the internet now, that you resort to childish tactics?”

“Do you practice being annoying, or is it just natural skill?”

Tony wasn’t looking at him, studying, instead, a stoppered bottle full of sunlight. Good defense against vampires and other night creatures, and the easiest thing in the world to harvest, as long as you could get to the arctic circle, and that the day wasn’t cloudy. Seven years previous, they’d had good weather, and Victor had laid out over a thousand bottles. Might have been telling, the sort of company he kept, that he was down to his last dozen or so. He checked the calendar absently. Huh. Less than two weeks until the solstice. “Does your suit keep you warm?”

Tony didn’t even blink; it was one of the nicer things about being in love with someone else who was also a genius. He could track Victor’s change in conversation without a moment’s thought. “Of course,” Tony said. “Thirty-thousand feet isn’t what you’d call super comfortable without some sort of heating system. Some particular reason?”

“I’m reminded that I need to harvest more sunlight and I thought you might like to watch.”

“Harvest sunlight.” Tony’s voice was flat, skeptical. Victor found himself a little giddy at the process of being there when Tony witnessed magic. Real magic, that he couldn’t explain away with science or as mere illusions. The opening of one’s eyes to a larger realm of possibility was always awe-inspiring.

“It works well in battles against vampires.” May as well shock him all at once.

Tony spluttered. “Vampires aren’t real,” he said. Then hesitated. “Are they?”

“‘If there is a well-attested history in the world, it is that of the Vampires. Nothing is missing from it: interrogations, certifications by Notables, Surgeons, Parish Priests, Magistrates. The judicial proof is one of the most complete. And with all that, who believes in Vampires? Will we all be damned for not having believed?’ So spoke Jean-Jaques Rousseau, in 1764.”

“That quote was in _Twilight_ , too,” Tony snapped. “Doesn’t make it any more true now.”

“Again, call them something else if the word offends you, but they are, by all real criteria, _vampires_. Humanoid, but non-human sentients who feed off hemoglobin. Some of it is hollywood sensationalism, of course, but the fact remains, there are predators who look human enough that will drink your blood.”

“Gross,” Tony declared. “Do they spread it around?”

“No, that’s a movie invention; they’re a whole and separate species of sentient and self-aware organisms. They’re close enough to humans that, _theoretically_ , we could engage in sexual activities with them, but we’d have better luck actually _procreating_ with a daisy,” Victor said. There were some people, he knew, who’d like to fuck a vampire, but really, the vampire was going to eat them, and even vampires were pretty dubious about the whole thing. Well adjusted humans didn’t fuck their cheeseburgers, after all.

“So, like, disgusting aliens?”

Victor shook his head. “No,” he said. “That would imply extra terrestrial or perhaps, transdimensional beings. They’re not. They’re born here, live here. They’re no more alien to us than we are to chickens. They just see us as food. Very, very hostile food, these days. You can communicate with them, sometimes. Some of them keep humans as pets, or cows, of sorts. They’ve been close to hunted to extinction. If they weren’t from here, I imagine they’d leave.”

“If they think of you as a meal, why would you talk to them?”

Victor’s mouth twitched. “They are masters of illusion,” he explained. “Those that live, they walk among us, and most of the time, no one notices. You can bargain with them, for lessons. It’s… exciting.”

Victor could tell, by the faint curl of Tony’s mouth, that he was going to be one of those skeptics for whom everything needed to have a rational explanation. And magic was just one of those things; physics need not apply. Tony would believe, eventually. Or he wouldn’t. Magic, at least, wasn’t shamanism; it required no faith to work, nor to have an effect. His magic would work whether Tony believed in it, or not.

“You want to learn?” Victor asked, suddenly. He remembered an old cantrip his mother had taught him, years before he even knew what he was doing. A fuzzy, comforting thing that even a child could master with time.

Tony scoffed. “I don’t think I have what’s required to learn magic.”

“Nonsense,” Victor said. “It’s a simple working.”

He came up behind Tony, folded Tony into an embrace and rested his chin on Tony’s shoulder. “Here, give me your hands,” he said, tracing his fingers down Tony’s arms. “Hold them like… so, there, no, wrist just a little higher.”

“I feel like I’m at a heavy metal concert,” Tony said.

“Perhaps,” Victor said. It could be true, the metal concerts evoked great emotions in their listeners, perhaps at one time, a spark of magic had danced along those fingers. “How are you feeling?”

“Little bit silly,” Tony confessed.

“Deeper, how do you feel?” He pushed, a little of the command voice. It wouldn’t work on someone as strong-willed as Tony if he fought it, but just a nudge to get him talking.

“Tired,” Tony said. “Always tired, these days, really. Still angry, sad, frustrated with Steve and the others. Worried, what’ll happen.”

“Remember how you feel now,” Victor said. “Now, think about your body. Imagine, for just a moment, that your whole body is limned with light. Close your eyes if you need. Visualize it.”

“Meditation, your pain is a ball of healing light mumbo jumbo,” Tony said, but he closed his eyes. Victor opened his inner eye, watched as the energy of Tony’s vitae pulsed over his skin. Every living, breathing thing was made up of it. Spark of life, soul, manna, whatever name was placed on it; the core power of the living.

“Hmmm,” Victor said. He breathed, slow and steady and Tony followed him into it, without really being aware of what he was doing. Victor scraped the thinnest bit of his vitae off, held it on his fingertip like a dab of sweet from a bowl. “Open your mouth.”

The natural barrier that protected all living things from magic, hostile or otherwise, was thinnest inside the mouth. From this knowledge came the origin of kisses, sharing strength, love, healing. It was also why many magical potions and poisons had to be drunk. Certain sects had taken to sewing their mouths shut, although that was extreme, to protect themselves.  

“Here,” and Victor touched the tip of his finger to Tony’s tongue, depositing the trace amounts of his essence, his very _existence_ , to Tony’s.

Tony’s life energy flickered, absorbing Victor’s. Pure, unadulterated energy.

Tony’s eyes flew open and he licked his lip. “What the _hell_ was that?”

“How do you feel?”

Tony stretched under him, moving his shoulders, twisting his neck. “Amazing,” he said. “Like I woke up from a restful sleep.” His eyes were wide. Victor wondered how long it had been since Tony actually had a dreamless sleep. “What was it?”

“My life energy,” Victor said. “Only a tiny, tiny amount. I have shared it with you. In time, you can learn to do the same.”

“Does that… hurt you?”

“It can,” Victor said. “Like the difference between a drop of blood and a million drops. It is a way of sharing strength, energy. It is… _vitae_. The course of your life. It is what fuels magic, what makes it _possible_. And everyone has it.”

Tony was watching him with heavy-lidded eyes. Watching him with intent. “Does something else, does it, aside from sharing strength?” Desire pulsed off him in waves, an almost physical force.

“It amplifies,” Victor said. “When my mother showed it to me, I felt like… my birthday morning, and eating cookie batter raw from the bowl, and listening to her read bedtime stories at night. When you consume my _vitae_ , you feel… what I feel for you.”

Tony’s mouth curled up into an inviting smile. “So… what you feel involved that little sofa over there and you naked on your back?”

“Oh, it certainly could.”

***

“Pep, no, come on,” Tony said. It was o’fucking dark thirty and Castle Doom was quiet and a little gloomy if Tony was being honest. He walked around on the parapets, because really, that just seemed the thing to do if one was in a castle. He kinda wanted to have a big pointy weapon of some sort, just for the atmosphere. “Look, all these arrangements were made when I thought I was going to die, and there’s no reason why-- yes, I know the company has my name, but it’s okay, if you want to rename it Potts Industries… okay, no, yeah, that sounds like a cooking company or something. Well, I’m sorry about that, you’ll just have to marry Rhodey and put his name on-- kidding, Pepper, oh _god_.”

Sometimes Tony thought there was no depths of boredom to which business affairs could sink and every time he gave voice to that thought, business had to say challenge accepted! Seriously, Pepper was the CEO, and Tony owned a good deal of stock, and when he was in between Avenger’s missions or handling exceptionally hostile press and corrupt politicians, he was the head of the R&D. A job, he might add, he’d still be able to do in Latveria, because of this nifty little invention called the Internet, some of the assholes on the Board of Directors might have heard of it, maybe, if they got their heads out of their asses once in a while and looked at something more impressive than the bottom line (or their mistress’s bottom, whatever. Did Tony look like he cared?)

Nothing had changed that was important to business, as if clean energy and symbionic prosthetics were utterly dependent upon Tony being both in the United States and presenting information to the Board in the same room on a weekly basis.

Which was just stupid.

Tony could do what he did in the comfort of the workshop that Victor was setting up for him; in fact, he would probably be bothered significantly less, all things considered.

“Look, the United States doesn’t need me, Pep,” Tony said. “And the Avengers need me even less. I’ll still be around if the world decides Iron Man is required, but until then, I think I’ve earned a partial retirement with someone I love.” That was a little painful; Pepper had wanted to him to retire, begged him to, in fact, and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it until all his mistakes were rubbed in his face, and he came to admit it. Iron Man getting involved was the nuclear option. Last resort.

“All right, Tony,” Pepper said. “I reserve the right to call you, though.”

“You’re the best,” Tony told her, and that was true. He was leaving his legacy in her very capable hands.

He disconnected the call and dropped his phone into his sweatshirt’s kangaroo pouch. That was another nice thing about Latveria; no one cared what he wore on a regular basis and so he was getting a lot of wear out of jeans, tees, and hoodies.

Tony was pretty sure that Latveria would wear on him eventually. He’d get bored with it. But right now, in the middle of Victor’s modernization projects, with his lover to keep him warm and the weird feeling of being an actual hero to the Latverians, all of whom knew who he was, and what he’d done… they didn’t treat him like an American hero, either, didn’t expect him to be perfect or have a witty sound byte or endorse certain products.

They… thanked him for his courage. Their lives. Invited him to dinner, and were kind and cheerful on the few occasions that he went. Minimal fuss, maximum hospitality.

It was weird.

And nice.

Sometimes it made him uncomfortable, wondering how much of Victor’s reputation he was leaning on; the man had been a fascist dictator for decades -- according to some sources. Which made him wonder how accurate that assessment had been, but Victor openly admitted he’d made mistakes, carried on traditions. That his people were used to unquestioning obedience.

“Honestly,” Victor had said, “I’m shocked there hasn’t been a rebellion, given that there’s so much more leeway. It would be the perfect opportunity.”

“What will you do?”

“Let them,” Victor had responded. “Don’t fret, love. I won’t let them hurt you, and I’ve a refuge awaiting us. It will not be luxurious, but we will have each other.”

“That’s all I need.”

Which might have been a little bit of a lie, because Tony was pretty sure he needed a cheeseburger once in a while. And coffee. Coffee was stone-cold necessary.

A spill of light illuminated the courtyard below and Tony shifted into the shadows; the staff in Castle Doom were often a little overly solicitous of his comfort and he didn’t feel like being fussed over right now if the baker’s assistant found him wandering the walls at some ungodly hour.

No servant or staff, that. The man who strode out into the courtyard had the same arrogant walk that characterized a person who knew their own value far exceeded others around them. He wore an emerald green cloak that swirled around his boots and he wore a sword strapped to his back. Tony closed his eyes and tried to _see_ , the way Victor had been teaching him. He’d never managed it, but at the same time, lab was always different from field work.

For a long moment, Tony saw nothing but the insides of his eyelids and he felt nothing but the same niggling embarrassment that happened every time Tony tried to work a spell. Like his high school classmates were going to jump out and laugh at him or something. And then--

It wasn’t light, not the soft glow of vitae that Victor had described, but rather a pulsing, pulling darkness that surrounded the shape of a man. Clawing, angry, and cold, so cold. Tony opened his eyes and pulled back into the shadow with a strangled gasp.

The man turned, eyes going immediately to Tony’s hiding spot without hesitation.

“An apprentice, VonDoom? Surely this one is too old,” the man said.

“Are you not left yet, Mordo?” Victor’s voice, and a moment later, the man himself came into the courtyard. He followed Mordo’s gaze and saw Tony. Victor’s eyes widened briefly, then, “No, not an apprentice. He is my pleasure-love, and you would do well to remember not to touch that which is mine. Go, Mordo. We have no more business here this night, or any other.”

“We’ll see,” Mordo said, dismissing Tony with a sniff. “We all fall prey to the weakness of being human in the search for power. You know where to find me, if you change your mind.”

The man spun a hand in a gesture reminiscent of actions Tony’d seen Dr. Strange perform before and he disappeared into one of those swirling purple portals.

Tony waited until he’d descended the stairs into the courtyard and found himself at Victor’s side. “What was that about?”

“The desperate grasping of a man who believes he has the right to rule the world,” Victor said. “It is nothing we need dwell on.”

“Is he looking for your help?”

“In a way,” Victor said. “He fails to understand that the world and the rulership thereof holds no appeal for me. Stay far away from him, love. He will not have your interests in mind, and he is no small talent. I would avenge you, but I’d prefer not to need to.”

“Yeah, I think I’m pretty well done with avenging, myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goodness, it’s been a while since I’ve worked on this fic... that being said, I have the next 2 chapters pre-planned and I know what’s going to happen. Because chapter nine will end on a bit of a cliffhanger, and I don’t want to leave you guys hanging that long, I’ll get both chapters done before I post. Thanks to all of you for your patience. I do love this pairing so much!


	9. Stark Naked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is about half smut; once Victor gets Tony up to bed, they're smutting.
> 
> Also, this chapter ends on a cliffhanger. I'm back in this mindset, so it probably won't be tooo long until it's resolved, but if you tend to avoid cliffhangers, come back next chapter :D

“For someone who’s supposed to be almost as smart as I am, you’re a very stupid man, Dr. Strange,” Tony said. “You’re about to get your ass kicked right into the next dimension.”

“Hiding behind Doom’s cloak?” Strange asked. “That’s a new look for you.”

 “I’m sorry, what?”

“Time was, you would have been on your feet, itching for a fight, and not waiting for a boyfriend to show up and save your ass.” Strange wasn’t doing casual very well, even though he was leaning against the wall. The cloak of his -- and Tony had never been able to tell if it was all the way sentient on its own, or just like a very over-eager and magical puppy -- was practically bristling with tension.

“I’m _retired_ ,” Tony said. “I don’t know how many times I have to explain this to you people. Whatever problem you have, I don’t care. I’m not interested. Go run off and bother Witchy Wanda, or T’challa or somebody else. Anybody else. I’ve saved the planet enough times that it got routine. I’m _done_.”

He was also totally lying. Strange had come all the way to Latveria, and while that wasn’t quite as much of a day trip for him as anyone else, it still wasn’t standard, and he’d come specifically looking for Tony, rather than Doom. Tony would admit -- privately -- to a little curiosity. It was his curse.

Vic was off. Somewhere. Doing something. In another dimension. Tony didn’t know much about it, beyond that he’d promised to be back in a few days. Okay, maybe Tony knew a little bit about it because he was a nosy son of a bitch, and he was also busy working on a new AI, and maybe Jocasta hadn’t quite figured out that privacy was a thing, but she was learning, slowly.

After she’d reported a few hushed conversations between Vic and some extra-dimensional beings that hadn’t looked like Tony was supposed to know about it. He was still trying to translate the language, though.

“I’m not, as it happens,” Strange said, absently patting his cloak, which gave him an air of mob boss with a pet cat, “here for a fight. Or seeking your advice. I am here because I think you might be in danger.”

“Flattered, see above statement about boyfriends, and ass kicking,” Tony said. He looked back into the book he was studying. Well, studying was the wrong word. He was trying very hard to figure out how to convert a cantrip into an electrical format. There was no reason why spell books had to be kept on ancient paper, in smelly books, in ridiculously dusty libraries. No reason, except Tony hadn’t been able to figure out how to move the vitae from the book pages to an electronic copy. Something about the transfer process destroyed the ability for even Vic to cast it.

“I’m afraid that’s exactly what they want.”

“Look, Bippity-Boppity-Boo,” Tony said, “either tell me what you want, or shoo. I’m busy, here.”

“Doing what, Stark? Trying to transcribe a cantrip that any child with the magical talent of a flea can accomplish?”

“Don’t underestimate fleas, they’re tricky little buggers,” Tony said, and then couldn’t quite resist a headshake and smile at his own pun. “Besides, no one’s done it, yet.”

“Is that what drives you, Stark? To do something new, only to say you’ve done it? There are better ways to spend your time.”

“No, there’s not,” Tony said, shutting the book with a snap. “See, that’s the thing, Strange. You all seem to think you have some claim on my time, some… higher purpose that you want my brain, but not the rest of me, for. Iron Man, yes. Tony Stark, not recommended. You don’t get it. This is my life now. None of you have any claim on me, so yeah, if I want to see if I can’t get a tome of magic to translate to coding, then I’ll do it.”

Vic, at least, enjoyed watching him try to figure it out. Tony had managed to cast one spell. One. Sort of. He’d more knocked something over with magic, rather than lifting it, but hey, everyone had to start somewhere. Vic attempted to encourage him to perfect one spell before trying to change the medium of magic, but sometimes you had to fly because you crawled, right?

“Much as it pains me to admit,” Strange said, “your well being affects more than just yourself.”

“Sorry I couldn’t go full on hermit for you, McMage.”

“Could you stop being a sarcastic ass for just two minutes?”

“Could,” Tony speculated. “Probably won’t, but I could. Spit it out and I’ll give it my best shot.”

“Your boyfriend has possession of an extremely powerful magical item,” Strange said. “It’s come to our attention recently -- and by our, I mean mine -- that a certain group may be trying to obtain it. In the interests of the fastest way to a man’s heart, you are… shall we say, a weakness that Von Doom hasn’t had previously.”

Tony sighed and rolled his head to one side to glare up at Strange. “You know I’m nobody’s damsel, right?”

“I know that, in matters of magical forces, you are largely unprotected,” Strange said. “And until recently, rather refused to believe magic existed, and therefore unprepared, as well. Von Doom may have failed to consider that someone would strike at him through a loved one. Debatable as it is, whether or not he actually cares for you, we all know how Doom is about things he believes _belongs_ to him.”

“So, you think someone’s going to kidnap me to force Vic to give up the magical McGuffin,” Tony said, “And you also think that Vic’s not going to care if that happens. So what I’m wondering, here, tall, dark and mystical, is why it matters to _you_.” Tony watched him for a moment, then, “ah, you haven’t quite decided that he wouldn’t pay a ransom for me. And you’re here to obtain the item, while he’s out of the neighborhood, in hopes of making my kidnapping irrelevant, at least as far as the item goes. Thanks so much for your concern, bye bye now.”

“Do you believe he will give up one iota of his power base for you?”

“Actually, no, I don’t,” Tony said. “But that’s nothing new or unusual. You don’t give in to terrorists or hostage takers. All that does is encourage it. Ransom is not to be paid. By anyone. For any reason. That, by the way, includes you. You don’t get to take whatever it is, just to keep it safe. I won’t tell you again. Go.”

“If I were you, Stark, I’d take care to ask him what he’s got tucked away that’s so valuable that men like Baron Mordo would kill for it. That’s--”

“Bored now,” Tony said. He might not be able to cast spells, or transcribe them onto a thumb drive, but the one thing he had learned since moving to Latveria was how to operate a magical device. They were somewhat like the suits, really. Powered by his life force, and activated by a command phrase or a flick of the wrist, a device was easy.

Which is why Vic had left him several.

One of which he flicked in Strange’s direction.

It was unlikely that the sudden teleport from Latveria to the Gobi desert would do much more than annoy Strange; he had his own teleportation spells and abilities and could easily move himself elsewhere.

But not to Castle Doom. The spell locked him out of the area and surrounding countryside for a hundred miles in any direction for the span of one moon cycle (because magical artifacts tended to come with all sorts of weird rules, none of which Tony really understood, but that was okay.)

“Suck it, Sorcerer Surpassed.” Tony put the device down, and after a few minutes, picked his grimoire back up and went back to work.

***

Victor had seen many beautiful things in his lifetime. He was one of the best sorcerers on the planet, and could easily have been the sorcerer supreme, if he’d wanted to take on the responsibility. He’d travelled dimensions and watched the earth rise from the surface of the moon. He’d created wonders from the heart of animus itself, and wielded destruction like a god.

All that, and still nothing moved him so much as Tony, asleep in his chair, book open on his lap, neck at a desperately uncomfortable angle.

“You did not have to wait up for me,” Victor said, nudging Tony’s shoulder until the sleepy smacking sounds of Tony’s mouth indicated that he was rousing.

Tony blinked a few times, grumbled and rubbed sleep crust from his eyelashes. “Oh.” His face softened into a smile. “You’re back. How was -- I’m sorry, I forgot where you went?”

“It is of no import,” Victor said, “merely a backwater dimension that happens to be the best place to gather Djinn scales.”

Tony’s forehead puckered. “Genies have _scales_?”

“Similar to dragonhide,” Victor confirmed. “But they also shed, so it’s not nearly as hazardous. I just go to the areas where they nest and gather them up. Much easier than summoning one to our dimension and then doing battle with it. Easier on the landscaping, too.”

“But they are dangerous?”

“All things, out of their place, are dangerous,” Victor said. “I would be a stranger, an outsider, to them. A threat. If I was discovered, they certainly would attack.” He paused, looking around. “Speaking of outsiders?”

“I had a guest,” Tony said. “We had a few words and he left without getting what he wanted. I think. Never can tell with Strange.”

“He did no harm?”

“Well, he might have had a temper tantrum out in Asia somewhere, but I didn’t really bother to monitor it,” Tony said. “Nevermind him, I have a question.”

“You can ask it as you come to bed, beloved,” Victor said, gently taking the book from him and putting it aside.

“Bed sounds nice,” Tony said, eyebrows waggling with exaggerated lechery. “I just had a really nice nap. Stop distracting me. I… do incantations have… well, personality, for lack of a better word.”

Victor blinked. Not that he would ever argue with that supposition; all invocations and castings had some sense of their own power. It was not intelligence, not the way a human would have intellect. But it was subtle and it was quiet and even many long time magic users had not noticed it.

“One might say,” Victor started. “What have you observed?”

“Strange had his little animated wizard poncho with him,” Tony said. “It doesn’t like me. Which is fine, I’m used to that, but I started wondering _how_ it didn’t like me. Which led me to wondering if other things, magical items and devices, might have some sense of their own purpose.”

“They do,” Victor said. “The Cloak of Levitation is exceptionally old and powerful; each time a new spell is cast upon it, or a new ability given it, the cloak absorbs some of the essence of each caster. Like a child, it picks and chooses what it will bring into itself, to model itself upon. Over the centuries, it had developed a very strong persona. It has wants and desires of its own, and it had formed an exceptionally strong bond with Strange.”

“Well, no one said a nascent intellect had to have good taste,” Tony surmised.

“The most powerful of mages has taken advantage of this phenomena,” Victor continued. Tony was leaning on him, still yawning, despite his implications that he was more for bedsport than sleep. “Many of my own creations are given a love for this country; you are more able to operate my devices, because you wield them to protect Latveria--”

“Strange called me your property,” Tony sulked. “You’ve said it, too.”

_And so you are._ Victor’s hand rested on the small of Tony’s back. “In such manner that my devices will recognize you as an individual that I wish to protect,” Victor said, “then yes, that is the truth. But I do not own you. You are free to go, at any time you wish it. Nor would I put restrictions on you, within the Castle, save that you leave the lower labs alone, until you have acquired enough thaumaturgy to withstand the forces within. That is only practical, my love. All the indulgences in that matter would do is hasten your demise.”

“What else is down there?” Tony wondered.

“Many wonders and things of dark beauty,” Victor said, “which would take me weeks to name them all. It is the work of many generations of Von Dooms. Even I have not knowledge of it all. Did Strange want something?”

“Not specifically that he told me,” Tony admitted. “But he said there were people looking to take something of yours. He was implying that it might be me, or maybe something magical, and they’d try to use me to get to you.”

“Are you worried?”

“Are you dodging the question, Vickie?”

“Without knowing what Strange is angling for, I can’t specifically answer the question, Tony,” Victor said. He reached out with his will and nudged the bedroom door open. “I own many devices and books and even hold the favors of some powerful beings that others might wish to obtain. And you are my dearest treasure. Darling, I would turn the very planet inside out, if something were to happen to you, never doubt it.”

Tony blew air in a frustrated little breath. “I have been kidnapped and held for ransom before, Vickie,” Tony said. “By you once or twice, even. It never works out for the kidnapper. Don’t worry about me.”

Victor tugged at Tony’s shirt until he gave up trying to cross his arms over his chest and look cross. “I am not worried,” Victor said. “I am impatient to get you out of these clothes and into bed.”

Tony raised his chin for a kiss, which Victor was happy to give him, and then conversation was lost for some time, as each kiss led to another, until they were both panting for breath and clinging to each other to stay upright. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

“You are impossible,” Victor said, unable to keep from smiling. He worked at the fastenings of Tony’s pants.

“Merely improbable,” Tony said. They finally got undressed, with quite a bit of fumbling, and in Tony’s case, tripping over his own pants, before they were into bed and curled around each other.

Victor tugged and pulled and Tony, ever mallable in bed and seeking his own pleasure, went where Victor directed, until Victor was mostly upright against the headboard, Tony pulled into his lap. “Lean back against me, darling,” Victor told him, nipping at Tony’s ear, running his tongue around the shell, and making Tony shiver with warm puffs of moist air.

Tony wriggled into place, squirming deliciously, his round, perfect ass pushing up against Victor’s thighs.

Victor mouthed along the back of Tony’s neck, his shoulder, lips playing at the short hairs at the base of Tony’s skull. Each tender kiss raised the hair, sent shivers of goose flesh down Tony’s back. He traced the line across Tony’s shoulders, licking at his spine until he found a spot that made Tony squirm against him. He brought his hands up, stroking Tony’s ribs, up his chest. He circled the tender scars around the arc-reactor, eliciting sighs and hitching breaths. His fingertips drifted to Tony’s collarbones, and then back down, finding and flicking over sensitive nipples until Tony was arched, pushing into the touch.

“You are so beautiful,” Victor told him. “The way you feel and taste. Your skin, your hair, everything about you. You’re my treasure, Tony. I love you. Let me show you.”

“I could be convinced,” Tony said, the careless words belied by his eager squirming, the way Victor practically had to wrestle him to keep him still. Victor played him, running one hand up and down Tony’s lean body, the other arm hooked over his shoulder, keeping him contained.

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you,” Victor said as Tony went stiff, moaning softly. Tony was twisting, impatient, in his arms.

“Oh, come on,” Tony whined, always chasing more sensation, more touch, more kisses. Always with Tony was the rush to get to the peak.

“Slowly, love,” Victor whispered. “I’ll get you there, there’s no need to rush.”

“‘Course there is,” Tony complained. “More now means more later.”

“You will always have your fill of me,” Victor promised. Tony was eager and vulnerable in his nakedness, splayed wide-legged, over Victor’s lap.

“Want you to fill me up now,” Tony said, and it was all Victor could do to not give into that pleading. Victor allowed himself a few aggressive thrusts against Tony’s ass, rutting up against that perfect globe, feeling the silken heat of Tony’s skin. Tony pushed back into it, moaning wantonly. “Yeah, that’s… that’s it, come on, honey, I want… want it.”

Gripping the back of Tony’s neck, Victor pushed him down until he was on hands and knees, ass proud in the air. Using his free hand, Victor traced lines along Tony’s thighs, up the curve of his ass, teasing at the base of his cock, doing everything except what Tony wanted, no matter how he wriggled. For long, blissful moments, Victor keps Tony pinned, holding him down as Tony strained, as if he couldn’t decide if the delicious torment was something to encourage, or something to squirm away from.

Victor pushed Tony’s thighs apart and reached for the lube, summoning it to his hand with a snap of his fingers.

“Well, that’s handy,” Tony said, still trying to faux casual. His voice spiraled up into another one of those lovely, throaty moans as Victor smeared a line of slick gel over Tony’s crack, testing at the muscle with his thumb.

“Shh, darling, let me make love to you,” Victor told him.

“I’m not stopping you,” Tony protested. Victor breached him with a quick finger, hooked it just inside Tony’s rim and tugged. “Vic!”

A moan, several panting breaths, and a curse, before Tony stopped pushing back into it, letting Victor fuck him with a single finger, sliding it in and out in time with Tony’s beating heart. Tony whimpered as Victor ravished him, only a single finger, delicate and determined.

“Vic, honey, please,” Tony was begging, hands bunched up in the blankets, his ass pushed up and high, on display for Victor’s attention.

Victor continued to deny him any more than he was ready to give him, deliberately stoking the fire higher and hotter.

Two fingers, then, curling them gently inside, watching Tony’s thighs quake with wanting. With each twist of his wrist, each slick, hot slide, Tony was giving his all to it, every single fiber in his body was bending to Victor’s touch.

By the time Victor was up to three, Tony was all but sobbing, begging constantly, a torrent of filthy words, praise and demands, but his body had gone entirely still, recognizing he wasn’t going to get what he wanted until Victor was ready to give it to him.

Finally, Victor got on his knees, slotted himself between Tony’s thighs. “Are you ready for me, darling?”

“Oh, god, yes, please,” Tony gasped.

Victor rubbed his cock against Tony’s hole, wide and gaping and ready for him, slick with lube, the muscle fluttering with need. He slid against Tony with disciplined thrusts, barely entering before pulling back and rubbing the head of his cock against the sensitive skin, teasing, rubbing, tormenting. Tony pushed back with a frustrated moan, hungry for it. Enticing him with suplicating pleas.

When he relented at last, breaching Tony fully and sliding in to the hilt, they were both breathless, covered in sweat. “Yes, that’s it, darling,” Victor crooned to him, encouraging. “That’s so good.”

“Vic!” Tony sprawled, his spine arching in a lovely curve. Victor reached around, got a hand on Tony’s prick and stroked it, drawing him toward climax. “Oh, oh, yes, please!” Tony fucked backward onto Victor’s cock, forward into Victor’s fist, caught between two perfect sensations, and he was so lovely that Victor’s heart broke.

“There you are, that’s…”

Tony screamed out his pleasure, painting the sheets with come, spasming around Victor’s cock.

Tony was gulping air, struggling with the aftershocks as Victor plowed him, tucking his face against Tony’s back and thrusting with vigor. He chased sensation, pushing Tony’s asscheeks apart and then together. Felt the muscles spasm and flutter around him, squeezing recklessly. “So warm,” Victor told him. “So sweet. I’ve got you.” He went breathless, hands clenching on Tony’s hips as he pumped in. He jerked, almost violently, as every muscle in his body went hot and then cold, stiff and then loose.

He spilled himself into Tony, a blaze of brilliant blue flame across his vision, his skin flushed with passion. He murmured Tony’s name, stroked Tony’s skin as gooseflesh chased across his back.

They remained there for long moments, trying to catch their breath, lost in each other.

“Are you pleased, then, my treasure?”

“Better than chocolate,” Tony said, pulling away with a wince. He grimaced, then crawled around on the bed until he was cuddled against Victor’s chest.

“Well, yes, but is it as necessary to you as coffee?”

Tony snorted, then laughed, trembling in Victors arms with the force of his amusement. “Maybe. You should try again, I’ll let you know.”

“God _damn_ , you are hard to please,” Victor said.

“Something to strive for,” Tony said. He was already yawning again. “Love you, Vickie.”

“I must love you,” Victor said, reflectively. “I would allow no one else to call me by that ridiculous name.”

“That’s why I do it.”

***

Tony should have known everything was too good to be true.

When he considered it, he really should have known better. Annoying, and sort of an ally (or at least, not an enemy) or not, Strange _was_ the sorcerer supreme. Also, he was kinda like Tony, in the matter of intensely egotistical. Strange would have ‘ported back and smashed Victor’s shields just to prove that Tony couldn’t banish him anywhere that Strange didn’t want to be.

So, he must have wanted something else, and got it.

And he might, Tony considered, not have been Strange at all.

When Tony went to sleep in Victor’s arms, and woke up in a lightless cell, he was pretty sure that was the case.

“Fuck.”


	10. Pyrrhic Victory

Victor was pointedly staring at his watch by the time the Avengers Assembled and were ready to do battle.

He’d popped directly into their common room, with no impediments, and indeed, the only one even present to try to stop him was their archer. Skilled, perhaps, in his choice of weapon, but not nearly enough to stop Doom.

Victor put up a simple shield, no more than really, an inertial dampening field, and watched, grimmly amused, as Hawkeye attempted to breach it.

“Your response times,” Victor said, as Captain America finally arrived on the scene, “have grown lax without Iron Man’s AI to direct you. What should have you done, if I were a real threat? This one would be without a head on his shoulders -- not, perhaps, that you could tell the difference.”

“You’re not welcome here, Doom,” the Captain snapped, after trying twice to bounce his metal disk off the impenetrable bubble around Victor.

“You’ll have to imagine my dismay,” Victor said. “Under the circumstances, perhaps we can dispense with the hostilities, if only for a moment?”

“Unlikely,” Hawkeye muttered, still fingering one of his arrows resentfully.

“What do you want?” Captain America asked, arms crossed over that massive chest.

“Anthony is my lover,” Victor said, “and has come to reside in Castle Doom, in some seclusion and retirement.”

“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know,” the Captain snapped.

“That would take more time than we have at our disposal,” Victor said. How Tony -- _his_ Tony -- had tolerated this buffoon for so long, had even fancied himself at one point in love with the man, was beyond Victor’s understanding. “Instead, I have an offering.” He hesitated. Victor was risking much, so very much, and it was all entirely Tony’s doing. He held out a heavy, metal key on the end of a chain.

“What is it?” There was a certain acquisitiveness on the Black Widow’s face. She already suspected the truth.

“To the Captain, not to you,” Victor said. “I offer this Key, in the hopes that he will both be better able than I to guard it, and that he will do what is right, and never use it.”

Victor dropped the shield, enough that the Captain might take it from him. Which did not prevent him from keeping an eye out behind him and snapping one of Hawkeye’s arrows with a thought. “Do not mistake goodwill for weakness, Avengers.”

“What does it open?”

Victor considered not telling them, but all that would do was make certain that the Captain sought the door and brought its contents into the world. “A pocket dimension,” he said, “that my old ally and enemy will know how to access. Reed himself built it, with my assistance, as we wanted, very much, to preserve the universe as we know it, and what it locked within-- a cosmic cube. You would be advised not to seek it, for any reason.”

Captain America was wary, which, Victor supposed, proved he wasn’t out of reason idiotic, but it didn’t stop him from snatching the key away. Victor rolled his eyes, like he wasn’t giving it to them in the first place.

“Why give it to us?”

Finally, someone asked the right question.

“Because I currently cannot be trusted with it,” Victor said. “Tony has been kidnapped. Captured. _Taken_ from out of my castle, from my bed, from right out of my very arms.”

“So you give ultimate cosmic power, to us, instead of getting him back?” Dr. Banner asked.

At least _someone_ was concerned for Tony’s fate. “This is not a child’s toy, Dr. Banner, nor even a powerful artifact. This is one of the very building blocks of creation itself; not just a planet, or one tiny solar system, but the very manipulator of the fabric of the universe. It is a thing of unspeakable, unstoppable power. More power, I fear, that in this moment, I can trust myself to weild. Nor any of you, here. I can think, indeed, only of one man who might safely utilize the power, for only that which was necessary, and he, dear Avengers, is missing.”

“ _Tony_ ,” Hawkeye scoffed, “cannot be trusted with phenomenal cosmic power. He can barely be trusted with a scotch on the rocks.”

“How very little you know him,” Victor marveled. “And how you have never, ever deserved him.”

“You’re giving it to us, so you’re not tempted to use it,” Banner pointed out. “What do you think you would do?”

“Break the unbreakable,” Victor said. “I will go, and fetch my beloved back from those who took him. But if he has _died_? If they took him from me, forever? I would tear down this entire universe to bring him back, and I would not care in the _slightest_ , who was harmed by that destruction. I cannot be trusted, in this instance. Nor would any of you, but without my help, or Reed’s, you will not be able to open it. And Reed suffered enough from the cosmic cube, he will not help you in obtaining it.”

“You really love him, don’t you?” That was Banner again, polishing his glasses on the hem of his ugly purple shirt.

“Not that it’s any of your concern, Dr. Banner, but yes.”

“Take me with you, then,” Banner offered. “Me, and the Other Guy. We might be of some help to you.”

“Bruce!” The Black Widow said, and if Victor wasn’t mistaken, she was shocked.

“Tony,” Banner said, in explanation, “has never been anything but my friend. I’m not going to abandon him now.”

Well, perhaps, there was one, among the Avengers, who had been worth of Tony’s affections.

“Very well,” Victor said. “I will certainly prefer to be on the other side of the Smashes.”

***

_Anyone can do magic._

Belief wasn’t even required. If you cast the spell correctly, if you had the inner strength to bend the fabric of the universe, even a tiny bit, whether or not you believed had nothing to do with it. Water and heat made steam, believe or not, Ripley.

“And I am so desperate to believe in it, anyway,” Tony muttered.

He knew the two baby spells that Vic had taught him; cantrips. The scraping of vitae off a willing friend, and the levitation spell. The levitation spell was basic, extending, Vic said, one’s physical strength into the mystical world. It worked best with a thing that Tony could pick up and move around himself. Applying his muscles in a different way.

Tony couldn’t lift much, but at least he’d actually lifted _something_. In his particular case, he’d flicked a wine cork across the table, lifted a pen a few times.

The lighter and smaller a thing, the easier it was to move.

He didn’t have much to work with.

His kidnapper had teleported him (probably he’d dropped something inside Victor’s castle that let him get around Vic’s defenses) naked. Which meant he didn’t have any of his gadgets. Just his arc-reactor and his wits.

To be fair, it was more than most people had.

And because he had the arc-reactor, he had some light. There was nothing in the room, not even a door. No bed. There was a rotten, wooden bucket, probably to store piss in. That was all. It was cold, too.

Tony considered what he had. One arc reactor, three securing pins that held it in place. One removable core.

Well, three pins were redundancy. He could take one out and not risk the reactor falling out. Probably.

He twisted and removed the reactor from the casing. He really needed smaller hands! Why hadn’t he redesigned the casing in the last several years? Oh, right, because he sort of needed the rest of his rib cage. He leaned forward and reached into the casing with one hand.

Closed his eyes and envisioned the pins.

He couldn’t reach them with his fingers, he’d had to have Pepper do this for him once before. If things got really dire, he could probably break the bone in his hand and squeeze, but he’d rather not do that because he _needed_ his hands for things. Also, pain was a thing.

And leverage.

Tony tried to clear his mind. He didn’t have much time. There was a limited amount of time he could keep the arc-reactor out of his chest before it became critical to his function. And while most people would say that was only thirty seconds or so, Tony knew he could manage for at least fifteen minutes.

If he had to.

Concentrate.

Tony murmured the words Victor had taught him. They didn't really mean anything except to get a wizard in the right frame of mind to cast. Visualized the pins, down to the last precise line. Tony had an advantage there. He knew exactly what the pins looked like. He’d made them. They were already attuned to his hand.

He knew them intimately, each nick on the metal’s surface, each whisper thin line where he’d forged them.

Come to Papa, he thought.

The pin practically flew out of its hole, spinning as it went and Tony grabbed it, held it in his palm. Real and solid and magic and he’d damn well _done_ it. There was no doubt this time, that Victor had aided him surreptitiously. Given him a nudge.

One hundred percent Tony fucking Stark, thank you very much.

He snapped the arc-reactor back into place.

It only took a few minutes of scrubbing the pin against the rock of his cell to have a tiny weapon, a sharp shiv, only a few centimeters long. It wasn’t much, but the human body was remarkably vulnerable in a few places. Tony found an irregularity in the cell’s wall and rested the pin on it.

Now, all he had to do was wait.

***

Victor moved them to the Sanctum. Another place in New York where he was not particularly welcome, and Stephen Strange was just going to have to deal with it.

“What do you want?”

Stephen didn’t even have the decency to put on a personal appearance; he was projecting out of the second story, making them both look up at his oversized magical hologram. Trying to make Victor feel small.

Stephen was still relatively new to magic; he used it unnecessarily often. Showy. It wasn’t like that; it should never have been like that. It was like using a machine gun to kill a wasp.

Unnecessary. Less confident than he needed to be, for the protector of such valuables.

“To give you a warning and to solicit for aid,” Victor told him. He didn’t look up at the illusion. There was no point. Stephen was probably invisible right at the front door, watching.

“I’m not feeling unusually generous today, Doom.”

“That’s all right,” Victor said. “Consider it a gift. Mordo and numerous others have formed a cabal of some sort -- I’m sure they’ve given it a grandiose name to go along with their delusions. I declined the offer of a seat at the table. I have enough to occupy me with Latveria. I don’t want to rule the world.”

“That’s a change of pace for you,” Stephen pointed out.

“Yes. I am attempting to turn over a new leaf. You’d be smart to encourage it and stop with the theatrics, Strange.” If Doom put his mind to it, he could break the young sorcerer supreme like a taco. But he was trying not to be _Doom_ anymore, and simply exist as Victor.

“So, talk,” and that came from a different spot, where Stephen was floating, cross legged.

“Pretty sure he’s going to come at me with everything he’s got,” Victor said. “I’m denying him something he wants, and he took something of mine in return.”

“And I care why?”

“Because you’re not a fool, despite pretending. You know as well as I that two sorcerers are better than one. He will try to take me, and he will fail, but I will be weakened. Badly. And he will try to take you, eventually. We are better off, working together.”

“What’s he want that you’ve got?” Stephen covered the Eye with one hand. A powerful artifact in its own right.

“Cosmic cube,” Victor said. “But I have made arrangements for its protection. They will not get their hands on it. In the meanwhile, he has taken Stark, as leverage.”

Bruce Banner sighed. “Tony’s gotta hate that,” he said. “Bein’ used as blackmail, like he’s not a threat on his own?”

“I expect my lover is already making them regret that choice,” Victor said. “In the meanwhile, not being able to get their hands on the cube, I expect them to come here, to try for the Eye.”

***

“Do you know who your friends are, Tony Stark?”

“No, why, do you?” Tony didn’t even look up. He was tucked into a corner of the room, huddled up and trying to keep warm. He was hungry, thirsty, exhausted. There was no need to torture him with vaguely pompous theatrics.

“I am all astonishment,” Mordo, because it was Mordo, of course it was, said, “that there has been no demands for your release. No attack on my strongholds. Nothing. Perhaps you aren’t as valuable as I’d thought.”

Tony could feel the pin in his mind, like a red line of anger. He gripped it tightly with mental fingers. It was barely long enough, but it would have to do. _All I ask is an honest advantage._

He shrugged. “I can’t make them love me, if they won’t,” he sing songed. “You think if I’m going to be hanging around for a while, that maybe I could get a blanket? Food and water would be nice, too. You’re really falling down on the whole dungeon hospitality, two out of ten, would not recommend.”

“You’re hardly in a position to make demands, Mr. Stark,” Mordo snapped.

Tony spread his hands. “I don’t see that as being a demand. More like a suggestion. I don’t know, maybe it’s different for certain brands of evil villains. But mostly I find that dead hostages don’t give you any leverage.”

“You’re like a child, Stark,” Mordo snapped. “Just because you cannot comprehend my purpose--”

“Let me just stop you right there with a no, Baron Munchausen,” Tony said. “When you start taking and starving people in order to get something from their boyfriends? That’s _evil_. I don’t really care what your motives are, anymore.”

Tony peeled himself off the floor, limbs cold and aching. He didn’t particularly like being naked in front of an enemy, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that, now. “This… this is not the result of any sort of benevolent plan. You’ve lost any right for me to _hear you out_ or try to understand.”

“You’re a hypocrite,” Mordo scoffed. “The Merchant of Death is going to lecture me on morality?”

“Nope, no lecture,” Tony said. He grabbed the pin with his mind, turned it, and threw, with every bit of strength in him. At least using his brain instead of his hands, he could aim with precision.

Mordo’s left eye went dark with blood.

The tiny room was filled with screams.

Tony leaped, getting his arm around Mordo’s throat.

***

Two hordes of zombies, one batch of Unspeakables, and all the defenses around Mordo’s hidden sanctum later, and they found Tony.

Hulk had bashed in the stone in the direction of an underground pocket with some residual heat pockets. It would be just like Mordo to seal a prisoner in with no hope of escape. Dramatic.

To find Tony sitting around in Mordo’s clothes, minus the strips of his ceremonial stole that Tony had used to tie the man up. Mordo had a deep purple bruise on the side of his head, and his left eye was sunken, weeping blood.

“In my defense, I only half-blinded him,” Tony said, as they gathered to stare.

“You don’t wait around to be rescued, do you, love?” Victor opened his arms and Tony tumbled gratefully into them.

“I get bored,” Tony complained. “Also, he was monologing at me.”

“Heaven forbid,” Victor said. He wrapped Tony in his arms, feeling the warm reality of the man. “I’m glad you’re well, my love.”

“I’m not well,” Tony reported. “I’m wearing really horrible clothes, I’m thirsty enough to drink _water_ at this point, and I could eat my weight in gluten-free waffles. Not to mention the indignity of being kidnapped. Again.”

“I can take care of food, drink, and terrible clothing,” Victor told him, “but your dignity was lost a long time ago.”

“You are a terrible boyfriend,” Tony teased. “I deserve sympathy and pampering and--”

“Waffles I can manage,” Victor repeated. “I’ll see about the rest of it.”

Bruce Banner shook a cloud of dirt out of his hair, knuckled skinned but already healing, skin filthy but flesh-toned again. “What do you want us to do with the Wizard, here?”

“If you will accompany me, Dr. Banner,” Stephen said, “there are prisons for those skilled in the mystical arts. We shall contain him, according to our laws.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “You got Rage against the Machine and Mr. Wizard to help you?”

“And your old cohorts are guarding the Key, which is what Mordo sought,” Victor told him.

“You did what to the Avengers?”

“Only what they seek to do to themselves,” Victor said.

“You know Steve will try to find the cube, if only to prove that it’s what you said it was,” Tony said. “It’s like giving a sharpie to a toddler.”

“Consider it an olive branch. All the power in the known universe,” Victor said.

“We are in so. Much. trouble.”

“At least it’s ‘we’?”

Tony was still rolling his eyes when Victor kissed him, long and hard and needy. Tony melted into it.

Behind them, Stephen made a disgusted noise and Banner coughed uncomfortably before turning away politely.

“Ready to go home, darling?”

“As long as you’re coming with me.”

Whatever commentary Tony’s friends might have had about his clumsy innuendo were ignored in favor of portaling them to Latveria and the comfort of their bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this story is finally over. Tony and Victor will be moving along to bigger and better things. they've got a dubious peace with the Avengers, and Steve might call on Tony if things get dangerous. in the meanwhile, Tony's in wizard training and enjoying his new life with Victor, developing closer bonds with Stephen Strange and Bruce Banner... 
> 
> *I am accepting Prompts for this AU.* If you can, please leave them at my tumblr (tisfan) so I don't lose them!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Secret, Until Midnight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9512105) by [Skye_wyr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skye_wyr/pseuds/Skye_wyr)




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